Copper and Wine
by shallow-seas-we-sail
Summary: Dark AU. Maura Isles is elegant and refined. She throws a spectacular dinner party for the Boston elite. Only the good doctor is not all that she seems. Hidden under the facade is something dark and horrifying. And when friendship begins to blossom and shift between herself and Jane; Maura finds the security of the walls she surrounds herself with are easily scaled.
1. We Were Tethered By The Sea

**A/N: inspired by a gifset going around on tumblr that swapped out Hannibal for Maura, this thing popped into my head and hasn't left for weeks. It's dark and twisted and has Rizzles. If blood and guts and all that isn't your bag, then turn back now. Cause this is going to have it all. Draws strongly on the book 'Hannibal' as well as the show. Some 'Silence of the Lambs' will be showing up at some point. Bon appetit.  
**

_I tap him against the temple and he stirs just a little and opens his eyes; trying to focus in the dark._

_The boat rocks gently back and forth as I stand above him and I feel the slightest surge of power course through me. I enjoy the view from up here. He looks around and then looks at me, confused._

_"Hello, Adam." I am polite, despite his past dis-courteousness towards me. I even prop him up so that he is sitting._

_He tries to speak, but the tape over his mouth just butchers my name to 'Mmmorahh.' and I roll my eyes at his attempt as I kneel down in front of him._

_A trickle of blood makes its way down from his hairline where the ships boom collided with him. I wasn't surprised that the sound it made was thick when I swung it._

_He looks out over the water; maybe for help, maybe for point of land to understand where we are and I press my thumb into the laceration. He rolls his head back trying to escape the pain and screams against the tape. I'm sure I could easily slide under his scalp if I truly wanted to._

_"Do you remember summers on the Cape?" I keep my hand steady and he looks at me with one eye, his other closed and stained by blood. I'm sure he tells me to go fuck myself, and this time I press my thumb further. Separating skin from muscle; his bound hands pounding hard against his leg._

_"Do you?"_

_He nods this time and I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and clean my hand as I stand back up._

_"Good." I say and step back, kicking the bottom of his loafer, I look him over; "You look cheap."_

_I can see him going through the motions in his head in the dullness of the moonlight; like the complexities of watch. The gears attempting to tick and click into place and move forward. And then it does. I know because his good eye widens._

_"Yes. I do remember you calling me that once." He had as he held me down._

_Now I'm sure I hear him say 'I'm sorry'. Over and over._

_My hand slips into my pocket and I can feel the cool metal there. Bringing my hand out I flick my wrist and the blade clicks happily. He is leaning away from me now as I kneel back beside him._

_His smug sense of entitlement has all but withered away. It seeps out of the Fairfields. Entitlement. I feel anger well inside me. I steady myself and fight down the urge to slit his throat. That can wait._

_"I'm having a dinner party this weekend. Your entire family is invited." I trail the curve of the knife down his gaudy sweater. I press harder and the strands separate. I pull his shirt open and rest my hands on my knees._

_"Sweet breads." I tap the center of his chest with the knife's handle; "They are commonly prepared by soaking in salt water and then being poached in milk." I don't know why I bother explaining it to him. Though all things considered, he is going to be a course._

_"Your thymus gland gets its name from the Greek word thumos, meaning life. Heart. Soul. Desire." I smile as I push the point against him and am reward with a small rising of blood._

_"It can also translate to mean anger." I push further until I feel the blade press against the bone of his sternum. He is struggling against the ropes and I don't particularly care for the sounds he is making; like some kind of wounded animal._

_I lean in, close to his ear and pull my knife out; "I am going to crack open your chest, Adam."_

_His breath hitches as I stand. And that's where I want him to stay; in between the motions just before his diaphragm contracts and his lungs expand. I move my hand low across him. Swiftly. And when the blade severs his carotid I am blessed with arterial spray. It tastes like copper and wine._

_I cut his ropes and open the fuel tank of the small on board motor. I dip them in like wicks and let them soak while I retrieve my tote from the cabin below. I travel lightly on nights like this. My harpy, a single scalpel and a small bone saw as well as ziplocks and an insulated bag to keep what I take cool. Fresh._

_He's choking on his own blood and slumped on his side; in between the motions before you breath. I push my foot into his chest and he rolls onto his back. His hand comes up limply in some desperate attempt to fight me off and I push it back down gently beside him._

_I remove my scalpel and press it firmly against opening the knife had made earlier and splay him._

* * *

_I steer the boat towards a wooded area near the coast to an opening I had scouted earlier. Tossing my items on the clearing I pull the wheel hard to left and kneeling, light the ropes I left soaking. I push the throttle forward completely and jump off into water waist high._

_Making my way to shore I gather my things and watch the boat move out into the distance and to open water. If the explosion doesn't destroy the body he will be reduced to bones by scavengers on the ocean floor. Picked clean of features. Stripped of anything and forgotten._

_I place my tote into the trunk of my car, and getting in I can't help but to notice the envelope sitting in the passenger seat with 'Jane' neatly written across the front of it. I pick it up and feel a small sense of pride well in my chest at the penmanship. I had taken my time with those four simple letters. They were perfect._

_I wanted to be formal with the invitation, though part of me wanted to ask her directly to gauge her reaction. Would she assume that I was asking it in terms of friendship? Or dissect that I meant it in the form of a date, perhaps? I preferred the latter._

_I place the envelope back on the seat and start my car just as I hear a sound in the distance._

_Like thunder before a monstrous storm._


	2. Mercury Rising

**A/N: holy hell. I was not expecting the response I got from this story. Thank you so much for the follows and reviews (especially those punny Maura playing with her food ones. I lol'd) and Thank you for coming on this twisted little ride with me. I may had mentioned before that this story follows no particular time line (loosely season 1 and at some point up into season 2) but it may move all over the place. The cases themselves are just going to kind of play as filler (just like the show! HUZZAH!) I'm not sure how long this is going to be, but I do have know how it is going to wrap up. So again, thank you! Enjoy!**

I sleep more soundly than I have in weeks. My dreamscapes are canvases of black. Expanses of the color where no light seeps through. I welcome it in place of what usually mars my subconscious.

My phone's alarm goes off and gently beginnings of _Bach's Goldberg Variations_ fills the room. I let it play for some time; raising my hand above me as I turn onto my back and conduct to an absent audience. I keep in time with my movements and the cadence rolls over me.

Rising from bed I shut my alarm off and check my messages. Various emails remind me of online sales. Burberry. Armani. I receive multiple culinary newsletters. I vaguely wonder if they have any recipes for the new induction chilling in my refrigerator.

The sound of a notification on my phone brings me back to my thoughts. It is Jane asking for a large, double caramel iced coffee with cream and four sugars, as well as an espresso shot. I will get her soy. She never notices anyway with all the refined sugars.

I text her back and remind her of our yoga class at noon and I only receive a frowning emoticon. I can picture her face matching the small pixelated one perfectly. I laugh as I open my closet.

In the kitchen I feed Bass and make myself a cup of coffee. I look out the window and feel a small inclining of tranquility. And for a moment everything is still. Quiet. Much like I felt the night I watched Adam Fairfield bleed out on the deck of his hundred thousand dollar boat. I feel calm. I try to hold on to it; because without it I become unhinged. Dismantled.

It's a feeling that has been settled in my heart since I can remember. I feel it move through me with each beat of the muscle.

Recently though I realize that something else has replaced it. Something I can put a name and a face to. She is a light in the corner of something dark inside of me.

I wish I knew how to place what she does. How she does it. I want to put it neatly in a box and compartmentalize it. Her.

But I can't.

I haven't been able to for some time now. She is an algorithm. Complex and measureless beyond my means.

I finish my cup and place it in the sink before grabbing my keys and heading to her.

* * *

"It hurts!"

"Pain is only in your mind." I whisper before lowering myself into the downward dog position.

"Feels like my leg." Jane says and she loses her balance; "My mind has a cramp."

She re-adjusts and steadies herself, then arches her back. I catch myself staring at her from the corner of my eye as she lowers herself down to the mat. I lick my lips and try to find inner peace.

Jane's phone ringing brings a slew of muffled annoyances from the room as well as bringing the instructor into our space; who kneels in front of Jane as she answers with a roll of her eyes. His name is Brock and I am suddenly remembering I have a date with him tonight.

And Jane will be there with Jorge. The idea tugs at me though am I the one that arranged it. I have a hypothesis. Jane hates the idea of the date. But she is a variable even if she isn't aware.

Laying flat on her stomach, Jane ends the call and looks at me and I am doing my best to not make eye contact with her.

"We have a body." she says, pushing herself up and standing above me.

I open my eyes and think of Adam Fairfield being swept along by the Transatlantic current. His body being dragged across the ocean floor. Falling apart and disintegrating. No. It won't be that body.

Gathering our things we leave the class. Brock walks with us to the door; "I'm looking forward to tonight." and turns on his best charm.

I smile and Jane places her hand into the small of my back, hurrying me along out the door. Outside she comes up beside me and bumps her shoulder into mine. Looking at her, she sticks her finger into her mouth and feigns a retching sound.

I stifle a laugh and find myself sharing the sentiment.

* * *

I am holding the test results in my hand and Jane looks as though she wants to hide before the words leave her mouth; "You mean like a dildo?"

I am taken aback slightly by her embarrassment of the subject and suppress a small smile.

"Yes. I believe that is the popular term for it."

She looks at me blankly for a moment and nods her head. I decide to change the subject as I pass her and head to my office. I try not to think of what it would feel like to move inside of her that deeply.

"What time is Jorge picking you up?" I push open my door and turn; facing her abruptly. Jane stops in her tracks and her face contorts into a grimace.

"Half past I'd-rather-be-on-my-couch-with-a-beer."

"He's sexy. Every time he looks at you he contracts his orbicularis oculi and pars orbitalis."

"Huh?" her face falls flat.

I turn around and walk into my office; "It means when he looks at you his eyes widen just a little." I say over my shoulder as she follows. She is a sight.

I open the side drawer to my desk and take the invitation out; "Speaking of dates." I hand the envelope to Jane. She looks between us for a beat and pulls firmly on the envelope; bringing me a step towards her.

"If that's the case I could say you do the same."

Her proximity makes me dizzy. She smirks and steps back, the envelope in her hand.

"What's this?"

She flips it over in her hand and tugs on the flap. I am twirling the ring on my finger. Unhinged.

"It's dinner." she looks up from the invitation at me and raises an eyebrow; "A dinner invitation. A party."

"I see. It asks if I'll be bringing a plus one." she taps the parchment against her open palm.

"Will you?"

"That depends." she shrugs her shoulders.

"On what?" And I find myself at the mercy of this dance with her. It has become common place between us and I revel in it. Innuendo.

"On if I can ask the hos-"

"Rizzoli!" Crowe yells from the lab.

I can see Jane's demeanor change. He jaw tightens and she tosses the invitation on my desk before she turns.

"What?"

"I hear you're going undercover at the dyke club." Crowe's smile is smug and he pulls on his belt buckle.

"So?"

"Not really much of an undercover job for you."

I can hear Jane cluck her tongue against the roof of her mouth and scoff through a laugh; "Fuck you, Crowe."

"Hey, I've offered." he raises his hands in faux defense.

I find myself flexing the muscles in my jaw. I want to cut out his tongue.

"Go upstairs and kiss your brass." Jane says walking with purpose pass him and sending her shoulder into his, causing him to stumble back.

"Happily, right after my vacation." he quips behind her. He watches her leave with contempt etched in his face along with a hunger as his eyes roam over her backside.

I watch him watch her. He smiles.

"Where will you be going on vacation, Detective Crowe?" I ask as I circle my desk and take my seat.

"My place in New Hampshire. Deer hunting." he doesn't bother looking at me as he speaks; his eyes still fixated on Jane at as she leaves the through the lab.

I decide then to visit Darren Crowe and to personally invite him for dinner.

He takes his leave without a goodbye. His discourtesy is unspeakably ugly.

I sit quietly for a moment in an attempt to repose myself.

But I can only picture the birds of his surname pecking at his eyes as he hangs from gallows in his home.

_Fly away, Crowe._

_Fly, fly, fly._


	3. Short Of Daybreak

**A/N: Wow! Thank you for all the awesome reviews and follows, guys! This story is just gonna keep on truckin' along. I'm so happy you're excited about this story as much as I am. Some gore towards the end of this chapter. More in the next chapter. Also a 'murder of crows' is a flock of crows. Thank you to my buddy Rizzy-and-Izzy for pointing this out. How convenient for some characters..**

Dinner is dreadfully boring. Brock and Jorge have been talking about transcendence and how Jorge's patients could benefit from the healing power of spiritual enlightenment.

Normally I would be keen to show more interest, but I can't seem to stop looking at Jane. She is stunning in a simple black dress. My eyes trail from her collarbone and up her neck, then to her lips that curl into a small smile when I catch her gaze.

I quickly glance down at the table in an attempt to hide being caught. I look back up at her and smile curtly before taking a sip of wine and turning my attention to the two men.

When our food arrives I get a curious glances from around the table.

"Did you want the cow still moo'ing on your plate?" Jane points to it with her fork.

I cut into the filet and bring it to my lips; "Honestly having a cut like this any way other than rare would be a culinary crime."

"So I would have to arrest the chef?"

I smile into my glass before the wine touches my lips; "Perhaps."

I feel Brock's hand on my knee. He is cold and I do not like the intrusion of my space. My hand tightens around the steak knife as an image of it sticking out of his chest flashes through my mind.

"Excuse me, I think I need to use the ladies room."

I rise from my seat and look at Jane expectantly who waves me off; "No. I don't need to go."

Walking passed her I dip my head low and brush my lips against her ear; "Oh, I think you do."

I can hear her rise behind me and once we are around the corner I turn quickly and face her, causing her to almost run into me and her hands to fly up to her face.

"I thought you had to use the restroom!"

"No. That was a ruse. Do you like him?"

Jane scrunches up her nose and shakes her head; "He's dull."

I nod my head in agreement; "But he may not be dull in bed."

Jane's eyes widen; "Maura! No!"

"What? Too bad though. Did you know that sex releases immunoglobuin-a? It wards off colds."

Her eyes trail from mine. Down to my lips, and I tilt my head. Posturing at her. Daring her.

She leans in closely, bringing her lips to my ear and for a moment I breathe her in.

"It's getting late. I vote for a night cap rather than dessert with these two. My place?" her voice is low. It rasps and cracks against my skin.

She leans back and looks at me. I'm at a loss for words and let out a shaky breath. I nod.

* * *

"I'll be right back. I need to get out of these heels."

Jane pauses for a moment as she walks away, snaps her fingers and turns back towards me; "Do you want a change of clothes?"

I drum my fingers absently on the kitchen island and smile; "That would be wonderful. Thank you."

My pulse quickens at the thought of being beside her.

Jane returns changed and with yoga pants and a blue, baggy t-shirt. She hands them to me as I walk by to her bedroom and gives a small smile. I can feel her watch me leave.

Changing I notice her laptop on the night stand. I slip the shirt over my head and pick it up, then settle on the side of the bed I seem to have designated for myself.

"Jane, come here." I open the laptop

She makes her way into the bedroom with two glasses of wine and she eyes me suspiciously as she hands me a glass and lays back.

"Let's see if you have any messages." I set my glass on the bedside table.

"Messages for what?"

"Your dating profile."

"My what?"

"Frost and Korask wanted to fill it out. They thought it would be an easier way for you to meet women at the club. I typed."

Jane sits up slightly and props herself on her elbows. She raises an eyebrow; "You what?"

"If it wasn't for me, you'd be butch."

She snorts and rolls her eyes. I turn laptop towards her; "All of these women think you're hot."

I watch her eyes move from message to message.

"Oh! She seems like your type! She has season tickets to the Celtics" I point to the screen.

Jane closes the laptop in my hands and sets it at the bottom of the bed before laying back

"No, thank you."

I open my mouth in mock offense; "Just like that you're done?"

"Just like that." she snaps her fingers.

"You're bossy."

"So are you."

I scoff; "I am not."

"Yes you are. You're only nice and polite when you're bossing people around."

"Well, it's a good thing you're not _my_ type."

Her mouth hangs open for a moment. Offended.

"What do you mean I'm not your type? That is so rude!" I can tell she is joking, but there is a tinge of truth in it. I know because she looks away from me briefly. I settle my head back and close my eyes. This is bordering on stressful.

"Well just think. Think this time tomorrow I could be on a date with a killer."

I open my eyes quickly and look at her. She is studying me with one eye open and it reminds me of Adam Fairfield.

"Yaay." she drips with sarcasm and closing her eye, she pushes against the pillows with her head.

And something washes over me. Guilt and regret. It is foreign and I equate it to Jane. I want to hide more than I ever have. I picture Jane's moral compass pointing true north, and mine beside it; spinning madly out of control. I feel an uncomfortable heat spread across my chest and a flush creep up my neck as my skin raises slightly.

"Maura?" her eyes are still shut.

I look up at the ceiling and swallow down the sudden bitter taste in my mouth; "Yes?"

"You're my type."

I feel her reach out to me. Her hand rests atop of mine; our fingers lacing together.

"Mine too."

I turn off the light beside me and squeeze my eyes shut. Her thumb brushes against mine and keeps a comforting tempo as I drift into the oblivion of sleep.

* * *

_It is a memory of a memory of a memory._

_I am small. So small. I fit perfectly in the shadows._

_Screams woke me up. A horrible sound filling my head._

_I'm hiding in the dining room; under the table and looking through the cloth like a veil. My mother is sitting in a chair in the center of the kitchen. Her hands tied behind it._

_The screaming stops when the burly man in front of her wraps duct tape across her mouth and around her head. Her cheeks are bound so tightly that the blood constricts there. She is sitting beside my father who is stoic. A man accepting his fate and making his peace. Or maybe he is just too afraid._

_The man is pressing the point of an ice pick against her chest and I can't make out what he is saying. His eyes flash with an anger I've never seen and he pushes the hilt of the handle quickly; piercing the howling woman's heart and pulls down abruptly. Bluntly. I hear skin, bone and cartilage rip, crack and tear._

_My father writhes against his bindings. He swears and spits at the man._

_He takes a small knife from his back pocket; the blade is curved and sharp. Like a talon. He slits my fathers throat. He turns back to my mother pulls at her ribs. He opens her chest and cuts out a broken heart._

_I look up at crucifix on the wall in the kitchen and I weep with Christ. My father's dog barks and paws at the backdoor._

_I bring my hands and fingers together and form the shape of a heart like my father had shown me. I frame my parents perfectly between my hands and through tears._

_The man lays my mother's life in a bowl on the floor. He opens the door and whistles, The dog trots in and wags his tail happily. He leaves red paw prints that lead to his food dish._

_I am running now. Towards my mother. No. She won't be left for the dogs. She is mine._

_Crimson hands grab me and hoist me up. I am a million miles above them. They are out of reach and I cry and fight with my little body. I want my mother. I want her heart. I want to take it and hold it. I want to swallow it. I can mend it._

_I force all the air out of my lungs and scream._

_And then I hear a voice through the discord. They are hushed reassurances. Loud whispers that echo. I can feel myself being pulled out of his hands and into a warm embrace._

And when I open my eyes she is a vision of resurrection. Wrapped in the sheet we share; her scarred hands cradling me. I am upright but she lowers me down to her so that I lay my head against her chest. I am grounded.

Her fingers brush through my hair and I listen for her heart. And when I hear it I grip at her shirt above the beating muscle. It is damp from her own nightmares. Tortured halves of the same soul.

And she is an angel of mercy. Her lips grace my temple and then my brow. The last time I wept I had seen Christ and had lost faith in any deity, having seen too much of God and man's malice. My own depredation pale in comparison. But in her arms I can feel myself being saved. She is grace. The sky is on fire and I weep for the first time since I was a child.

I can see the yellow, red and orange that rise with the sun.

I listen to her heart and my tears stain her shirt. I close my eyes.

I can see Darren Crowe's face upturned to the branch that suspends him. A murder of his brethren flying overhead and I see black.


	4. May My Own Home Be My Gallows

**A/N: Gore warnings for this chapter. Also major nods to Hannibal. If you've read the books or watched the show, some things maybe familiar. This chapter and I fought a bit in terms of one Mr. Darren Crowe. If it is too gratuitous let me know. I tried to stray away from that but keep an unsettling aspect to what Maura is doing. I'm not sure I achieved that. Again! Thank you for all the reviews and follows! You all are the best :)**

Jane's breathing is even and her arms hang loosely around me. My eyes are closed but I haven't slept. Even with her strong heart drumming below me I am still too afraid of what my subconscious may conjure up.

I begin to rise from her embrace, but she tightens around me.

"Not yet" she says sleepily.

I smile sadly and brush my nose over the small cleft of her chin before placing a chaste kiss there.

"I need to."

She huffs and raises her arms. I sit up and look at her. She squints at me with her hand covering her face in a failing attempt to block out the sun.

"Are you okay?"

I shake my head.

"No, but I will be."

She sits up beside me and rubs small circles on my back; concern etched across her face.

"Is there anything I can do?"

I shake my head again and give her a small smile.

"I just need some time to myself."

She nods and I know she understands when I feel her lips press against my cheek. I lean into her and turning my head, I capture her lips lightly with my own.

"Thank you." I lean back slightly and brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Admiring her comes easy.

She takes my hand in hers and places a small kiss the back of my knuckles; "For what?"

"For this morning. For protecting me."

She smiles and cups my cheek; "Always."

And I believe her.

* * *

Even at home I can feel the earth shift and move under me. I feel unstable. _This_ morning with Jane has thrown me off my axis. No routine is satiating. I have fed Bass, showered and changed. I had attempted to mediate but instead of silence was left with the screams from my nightmare echoing in my head.

I twirl the ring on my finger absently as I pace the kitchen. I sit at the island an open up my laptop and search the public land records in New Hampshire. I scroll until I find the listing for Darren Crowe and see he bought 4 acres in Grafton County in 2010.

I retrieve my tote from the hall closet and grab my keys and as well as few extra items for tonight. I need control.

* * *

_The leaves are beautiful this time of year. Even as they wither and fall, their colors spread like a fire._

_I've parked off a side road and to anyone passing by it would look as though there is just another hunter claiming a space. The roads were lined with cars on my drive._

_I watch him for some time from my place on the hillside. He has brought back an impressive stag. A bright yellow arrow protrudes from below the shoulder. A perfectly placed kill shot._

_He guts and cleans the carcass at work bench outside of the garage. His skinning technique is crude as is his removal of flesh. He doesn't cut to the bone, leaving a great deal of meat at the back as he removes the loins; or attempts to rather._

_He saws the stags antlers. A trophy to his accomplishments. One of many I am sure he has collected. His avidity is astounding. I've noticed for some time his tailored suits and expensive watches. A man living above his means in some ill-fated attempt to garner prestige among those around him. His ego is insatiable. His shoes have always been cheap though._

_I stay in my place behind the trees and watch him until he retreats inside. The sun is low in the sky and the fall chill settles in for the night. I begin down the slope careful to stay against the tree line that surrounds the cabin._

_I watch him through large bay windows. He drinks in the glow of the television. He throws back shot after shot and gets himself off. I watch him stumble and brace himself against the wall as he makes his way to the bedroom. When the lights go off I make my way around the cabin and smile at my discovery. He never closed the garage door. Leaning against the wall just outside of it is an upright dolly that he used to move and unload his kill earlier in the day._

_Inside the garage are a multitude of hunting tools. A recurve crossbow as well as a quiver of bright yellow arrows hang from the wall. I pull my hair back and remove a pair of examination gloves from my tote. I set aside the crossbow and arrows. I take a small hunting ax and slide it into my tote. I sling it over my shoulder as I roll the dolly in from outside and push it along in front of me. I remove my knife from my pocket and flip it open and drag it along side the 76' Camaro parked inside. Pity._

_I make my way back through the garage to a door. I turn the knob tentatively. It is unlocked. I lift the dolly and enter through a modest kitchen. The noise from the tv still low in the background. To my left is a small hallway that leads to a parlor. Deer heads mount the wall as well as antlers. Seems Detective Crowe has an affinity for killing as well. Also hanging on the wall is a black truncheon. One I assume he received after graduating from the academy. I take it and pull the small sling over my wrist as I make my way up the stairs; leaving the dolly at the bottom. I twirl it and I suppress the want to whistle._

_I can see the light from the bathroom down the hall. I flank myself against the wall until I am a few feet from the open door. Crowe stumbles and catches himself against its frame. Gripping the truncheons handle. I swing and connect it to the space below his ear, near the base of the skull. He slumps to the floor and is immediately unconscious. I flip him over and check his pulse. It is faint, but there. I pick up his legs his ankles and drag him back down the hall and stairs. His head bouncing along each step until I reach the bottom. I pull his shirt up and over his head and turn on the hall light. I remove my scalpel and make a waning crescent incision above his groin. I cut deep through his external oblique and aponeurosis. I spread the incision with my fingers and reach into his abdomen. I run my fingers a smooth kidney and dipping my scalpel in cut through the renal artery. With the organ freed, I drop scalpel back into bag and pinch the artery. The blood pooling in his abdominal cavity is almost black. I remove my hand and retrieve a ziplock. Placing the organ in and then securing into the insulated bag inside my tote._

_I lean back on my knees and look down at the man. The thick blood will clot his artery, but he will bleed out within the hour. I want Detective Crowe alive. I remove a small bag with surgical sutures and neatly close the incision in minutes and end with a baseball stitch. Laying down the dolly, I drag his legs unto it and push his feet firmly against its base. It takes a bit more effort to move his upper body. Once he is fully on I remove a roll of duct tape from my tote. I bind him to the dolly mid leg, hip and chest then hoist and roll him back out through the garage._

* * *

_I cut him free from the dolly and bind his wrist and ankles. I silently thank Darren Crowe for keeping the supplies in his garage so well stocked. I have hoisted him up slightly from the ground with a twenty foot extension cord. It wraps around his torso and under his arms. I've rigged it up and over a tree branch of a sturdy oak near the house and tied it to the grill of his truck to keep him loosely suspended. Around his neck I've tied a hangman's noose from nylon rope I found in the bed of his truck. Its length is twenty-two feet._

_I retrieve an ammonia cap from my bag and break it under his nose. He rouses, snapping his head up. He is still drunk when he looks at me; his head swaying back and forth. We study each other for a moment; his whiskey soaked brain trying to process me._

_I walk over to his truck and get in. Starting it, I back up and lift him until he is suspended a good deal above the ground. I turn on the headlights and press on the horn. He is fully awake now. He kicks and struggles in the air. He spins and sways around and side to side. Getting out, I reach into the bed of the truck and remove the crossbow, quiver and the small hunting ax. I hoist myself onto the hood of the truck cross my chastely cross my legs as I set the items beside me._

_"You're going to lose more blood if you keep struggling, Detective Crowe." I can see it seeping through his incision. _

_"Maura?" He sounds unsure, and I'm almost certain I must look like an outline of a shadow lurking behind the trucks lights._

_I pick up the crossbow and place my foot into the cocking stirrup, pulling back on string until I hear the latch fall into place, securing it there. I remove an arrow and slide it up the flight groove and bring the stock to my shoulder. I look through the sight._

_"Yes?"_

_He is silent for a moment._

_"You were extremely discourteous to Jane the other day. And have been for sometime if I'm not mistaken."_

**_'Thock!'_**

_I send an arrow through his left shoulder and he sways from the momentum and screams. It echos and bounces off the hills and trees. I grit my teeth and pinch my brow as I lower the bow. I should have taped his mouth shut. Not for anyone around us. There isn't another house for miles, but for my own sanity._

_"Fuck you and that guido dyke." he chokes out._

_I let out a sigh and reload the bow._

**_'Thock!'_**

_I send another arrow into his thigh. This time he cries._

_"I really don't think you are in the position to be saying anything like that, Detective Crowe."_

_He is breathing heavily and I set down the crossbow beside me. I cross my legs again and clasp my hands over my knee._

_"Do you know what you look like to me with your nice suits and cheap shoes out here in the wilds? A well-scrubbed, hustling rube, with a little taste. Good nutritions give you the length of bone, Detective Crowe, but you're not more than one generation from poor, Southie street trash, are you?"_

_"Fuck you." it falls out of his mouth, limply._

_"No, Darren. You won't. I prefer blue-collar Italian Detectives. Or, that guido dyke, as you so eloquently put it." I pick up the ax and bring it down swiftly into the electrical cord, severing it._

_He drops. The slack from the rope around his neck becomes taut. His bound hands grip at his throat and I watch until his struggling frame becomes limp. His face shades of purple and blue._

_I lower myself from the hood and walk around the truck. I toss the crossbow into the passenger's seat and drive forward; lowering him to the ground. I retrieve my tote from the bed of the truck and flipping the man over, I properly remove the loins._

_Getting back into the truck I reverse and hoist him back into the air._

_I begin the walk back to my car and I can hear the distinct calls of large black birds nearby cheer him to the gallows._


	5. Pieces Of You In Me

**A/N: So long Crowe and thank you for all the amazing reviews! There is going to be a lull on the murdering front. Had I not mentioned there was going to be Rizzles? Because, oops. There is going to be Rizzles!**

There are times when I can't remember what are memories. If they are something I saw or was told. Something I took and stored away to remember later in some failed attempt at happiness. Memory is what I have, skewed as it may be.

The scent of juniper berries in my hand awakens it.

_I am in our kitchen and hoisted up on my mothers hip. She is beautiful and she kisses my cheek. She twirls us around and her laugh lightens the room. I bury my small face into flowing, blonde hair and giggle into her neck._

I shake the passing vision from my head and take a long draw from my wine glass. I drop the berries in and mindlessly push them along inside the skillet, mixing them in with the shallots. Beside my glass on the counter is a small cut of tenderloin that I have brushed with oil and added a generous amount of salt and pepper to. Though a vast majority of the cut I am saving for the dinner tomorrow, I give myself this one pleasure to indulge in. I set it in a pan and open the oven and slide it in.

The notification on my phone sounds and it is Jane.

_How are you?_

_Better, thank you. I'm just making dinner._

I look at the clock on the stove realize it is close to 10. I had arrived home a little after 9 after leaving New Hampshire. I had showered and changed as well as thrown away the black yoga pants and track jacket I had been wearing. I uncork a bottle of Château Montrose and pour it over shallots and berries and bring it to a simmer as my phone sounds again.

_A little late for that don't you think?_

_Perhaps, but I have been distracted for a better part of the day._

_Me too._

_Quid pro quo._

_Huh?_

_Tell me what your distractions are, Jane._

I set down my phone and bring the wine cork under my nose. Sweet black raspberry mixed with a black fruit currant as well as earth and forest notes. When the notification sounds, a sad smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I read the message

_You scared me last night._

I counter in an attempt to steer away from where this could lead.

_I thought you were going to say kissing me. _

_That to. A lot of distraction with that, but you're deflecting._

I let out a heavy sigh as another text comes in.

_You don't have to face that stuff on your own, you know._

_It is really no big deal, Jane. I can't control my dreams. Our subconscious manifests itself in whichever way it sees fit._

_That wasn't a dream. I know what that was. I'm used to it. What happened?_

_Don't worry. I am okay now. I assure you._

I watch the bottom of the cast iron skillet. It is black on black. The currants burn off with the alcohol leaving a sweet smell in the air until a dark reduction is left.

_This for that._

_Pardon?_

_I googled your Latin. Quid pro quo, Doctor. What is your distraction?_

_Kissing you._

_Hives._

She responds quickly and I clench my jaw as I tap out my response.

_My mother... Sometimes I see her; a version of her in my dream._

_What kind of version?_

_Heartbroken. I am left alone and there is nothing I can do to help her._

I set my phone face down, brace myself against the counter and let out a slow breath. I take a step back and walk into the living room. I turn on the small dock my iPod is charging on and scroll until nylon strings fill the room; playing a sad rendition of King Henry VIII's 'If Love Now Reigned' as I place a setting for one at the island.

I remove the loin from the oven. I check the temperature and it is a perfect medium rare at 125 degrees. I divide it into thirds and plate them overlapping. I take a spoon from the drawer and tilt the skillet and dip the spoon in then drizzle a generous portion across the course and over the plate; creating intersecting lines of purple and red before topping it with the shallots and juniper berries. I slide my wine glass over as well as the Château Montrose and take my seat just as the doorbell rings. I tentatively rise and see headlights flash through the window as a car pulls from my driveway.

I open the door and watch Jane's patrol car take the corner and disappear. At my feet is a single rose. Tied around it is a string that holds a blue post-it with a hole punch in it.

I smile as I pick it up and am greeted with small, blocky handwriting. It is so quintessentially Jane.

_You are never alone. -J_

I step back inside and walk to the kitchen. I pour the remainder of the Château Montrose into my glass. I rinse the bottle and place the rose inside of it. I set it behind my plate and in front of me.

I re-read the note several times and something rises in me. The feeling of fitting. Of being seen. Of belonging. There is a shift and the intricacies of love take root. The notion of walking in a world alone is distant. I suddenly never want to feel the pull in my heart if I was without her.

I reach for my phone and text her.

_You are the honey in the lion._

_?_

_From the Book of Judges, you are the answer to Samson's riddle: 'Out of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness.' What is sweeter than honey? What is stronger than a lion? That is why the Philistines could never understand it, because the answer is you._

* * *

**P.S A/N: '****_The honey in the lion' _****is referenced briefly in a letter that Hannibal writes Clarice in the book '****_Hannibal'. There is a dark beauty to it that works well with these two in this AU._**


	6. The Note From Which A Chord Is Built

**A/N: **At last! A bit longer here, but this is set up for things to come. Step right up and place your bets on who's up for murder next! Hope you all saved room for dessert. Thank you again for all the encouragement, reviews and follows. You all are amazing and your gusto for this story is what keeps it going!

* * *

I spend a majority of the morning and afternoon shopping. I pick up Belon oysters for an appetizer and Branzino as a secondary meal for the night.

I will substitute it for myself, Jane, Frankie and his date. And while I have no qualms about Garrett and Sumner at my dinner table, but I would never show discourtesy to Jane or her family.

A small pang of guilt resonates in the back of my head as I pull into the driveway and I'm not sure how to gauge it. Empathy is something reserved for those deserving of it. It is not an emotion I am familiar with. I do not mourn over the loss of Adam Fairfield or Detective Crowe. Honestly, I relish in it. And I find myself trying to pinpoint where this sudden uneasiness has manifested itself from.

A tapping on my window brings me back from my thoughts and I see Jane waving her hand at me.

"Hellooo Maura, you in there?"

I shake my head and force a smile. Jane opens the door and steps back, extending her arm before taking my hand and leading me out.

"My lady."

A airy laugh floats up from the back of my throat.

"And they say chivalry is dead." I say as I round my car to the trunk and unlock it.

Jane smirks and brings her hand to her chest; like a pledge.

"It is very much alive." she taps over her heart for emphasis.

She joins me at the back of the car and bounces on the balls of her feet; a smile spread across her face. I give her a sideways glance.

"And what are you so happy about?"

"My date."

She bounces again and clasps her hands behind her back. She is giddy and I find it overwhelmingly endearing.

I turn and give her my full attention and eye her suspiciously; "Your date?"

"Yep." she takes a step towards me; "See, I'm going to this fancy dinner party tonight and I have a plus one."

"Oh." I nod my head and give her a small smile and turn back to the trunk; lacing the bags into my hand.

"Maura."

"Yes?" I take a step back and a lock of hair falls into my sight. Jane sweeps it gently from my face and tucks it behind my ear.

"Wanna go to a fancy dinner party with me?"

She looks at me hopefully and I smile, motioning to the trunk with my head. She reaches a hand out and closes it quickly; her gaze staying fixed on me.

I shrug.

"I don't think I can be a plus one at my own dinner party." I quip walking past her up the driveway.

I hear a low grumble behind me as Jane follows.

"You're not playing along."

I stop abruptly and turn; facing Jane.

"Are you asking me out?"

Stopping suddenly, Jane wrings her hands together and I can see nervousness etched in her face when she worries her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Yes."

"Hmm." I tap my foot and narrow my eyes, studying her.

"Now you're playing along too much." She steps forward and take the bags from my left hand.

"I'd love to attend my own dinner party with you at my house as your plus one."

I turn let out a small laugh at the absurdity of how it sounds and begin my walk back to the house. I feel Jane's hand ghost across the small of my back as she comes up beside me.

I stop at the door and look at her as I slip the key in and unlock it.

A soft smile tugs at her lips as she leans in, pausing for a moment. She searches my eyes as though she is asking for permission and I close the distance between us.

"A kiss is usually saved until after the first date." I pull back as I open the door and Jane shrugs and gives a coy smile as we walk inside.

We place the bags on the island and Jane makes her way to the fridge, opening it and helps herself to a beer. I watch as she leans back against it and twists off the cap before taking a long draw from the bottle.

"It's formal attire. Are you hiding a dress under those jeans?"

"In my car actually."

She takes a step forward and pinches my hip and I can't help the small leap I do along with my heart.

"Do you need any help cooking?"

"No!" It comes out rushed internally berate myself. I give her a smile.

She studies me and takes another sip of her beer; looking at me over the bottle.

"I won't burn anything. I can actually cook stuff other than grilled cheese, ya know."

"Of course. Here."

I open the drawer in front of me a retrieve a small box. I take off the lid and flip through multiple recipe cards.

"You can make the rosemary vinaigrette for the Branzino."

"Okay, but I'm still settling for steak."

I flip my hand as I make my way past her to the fridge and remove the chilled loin.

"Absolutely not. You've had red meat three times already this week."

"So?"

"So. You need to cut back your intake.'

"I'm not sure how I feel about this date suddenly." She forces a frown as she turns and retrieves a cutting board from the cabinet.

I wipe my hands on the small towel hanging from the oven handle and come up behind her; wrapping my arms loosely around her waist.

I rest my head against her back. I listen for a moment and can hear her the slight hitch of her breath and the low hum that resonates through her as she relaxes back into me. I feel her hand lay tenderly atop of mine.

"You're still having fish."

* * *

We engage in banter and steal kisses from one another as we cook and prepare.

It is a domesticity that we fall into naturally with each other. Like something slots into place. There is an alignment; a normality. It is something I have rarely felt, but Jane makes it swim inside of me.

She dips her finger into the vinaigrette.

"Taste."

I grip her wrist lightly and guide the digit to my mouth and let out a gasp of surprise when she swipes it across my bottom lip.

"Don't you dare play with the food, Jane Rizzoli!"

I push her playfully against the shoulder and she rocks back and then forward into me, her hands gripping my hips and her lips crashing into mine. I can taste spice and the subtle hint of barley from her beer as her tongue enters my mouth. My hands encircle her waist and pull at the fabric of her shirt. A fire has been lit. She takes a step forward and I feel the edge of the counter press into my back. Her lips trail down my jaw and to my neck, leaving a trail of heat against my skin. I roll my hips and am rewarded with a low moan against my neck as she nips the skin there and soothes it with a gentle placing of her lips. I tilt my head back and I close my eyes. My hands are beside me, gripping the counter for support as she trails the tip of her tongue lower, her teeth grazing my collar bone.

I can picture us as a mass of tangled limbs on the floor, our voices echoing off the walls. I imagine what she must look like as she comes undone. She is beautiful with her eyes closed and her bottom lip caught between her teeth, trying to suppress a primal, vocal want. My hands are sliding further the down the counter and I feel the pairing knife under my hand. I can see her shirt slit up the back and the cool blade severing the fabric.

My eyes are suddenly open and my hands are at Jane's shoulders, pulling her back up to me. She rests her forehead against my temple. I push the image from my mind.

"I'm sorry." it comes out in a ragged breath against my ear and it sends a bolt down my body that spreads a warmth low across me. Her fingers are drawing shapes absently through my shirt on my stomach.

"Don't be. Don't ever be."

I lean back and give her a soft smile; one that she returns as she captures my lips in a final, sweet kiss.

"We should be getting ready. It is nearly 7. The guest will be arriving at 8."

She nods and gives a lopsided grin as she takes a step back. Her eyes stay fixed on me, raking over my body before she pulls her keys from her pocket and turns towards the door.

I pick up the pairing knife from the counter and examine it. I turn it over in my hand and bring it down quickly into the cutting board; my frustrations propelling it. A thick noise fills the room and the knife stands at attention. I clench my jaw as a surge of anger wells up inside of me.

I open the oven and slide the sirloin in and set the timer before making my way upstairs to get ready for the night.

* * *

I can't focus and it's maddening.

My shower had done nothing to quell it, and as I lean towards the mirror to apply the last of my makeup, the feeling won't dissipate. My mind screams at me.

_But you adore her._

It is fear, I finally realize. Trepidation. And how strange it is to link a word and emotion. I could write it and feel no connotation. I'd only study the line made to form the letters. Only suddenly now it courses through me.

Signals from my amygdala reach my hypothalamus, releasing HCT which is turn releases cortisol. There are connections, intricate and small. Primal and ancient. They make my muscles tense. They make my body move on its own accord.

They make control nonexistent.

Who I am to Jane?

Who I become when I am outside the control of my rational brain? I remember the way she felt against me and the knife under my hand. When everything around me takes on every shade of red. When thoughts intrude that I can't push away.

Who am I with Jane?

I now know fear; not for myself, but of myself.

I lean back and look at my reflection. I gauge and study myself. I remember the words of Marcus Aurelius.

_Of each particular thing, ask what is it in itself? What is its nature?_

The line rolls over in my head. Over and over.

"Hey, you ready?"

I catch Jane's reflection in the mirror as she walks into my room. She looks stunning. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun and she wears a cobalt blue dress with a plunging V neck. It leaves little to my imagination.

"Almost, I just need to put on my tie."

She quirks an eyebrow as she steps into the space behind me.

"You look-.." her hands rest on my shoulders and she is momentarily lost for words and only a scoff of surprise escapes.

"Amazing?" I finish for her.

"More than that." She steps to the side of me and looks me up and down. I am wearing a fitted Armani dress suit. Pinstripe with simple white button up underneath.

"Handsome." she pauses for a beat; "May I?"

I nod and watch her walk to the armoire. She opens it and picks out a black skinny tie then is behind me again. Close. Almost flush against me. She pops up my collar and brings the tie around my neck and adjusts the length. Her arms are over my shoulders as she brings the ends together, wrapping and tucking it into a small, perfect Windsor knot that she slides slowly up,

I picture Darren Crowe swinging lifelessly from his tree in the woods. And my mind begins again.

_You covet. And how do you begin to covet?_

Jane reflects a soft smile at me; "There."

_Do you seek out things to covet?_

"Ready?"

Her eyes catch mine in the mirror. They are midnight.

_No. We covet what we see everyday. __Don't you feel eyes moving over your body? And don't your eyes seek out the things you want?_

Jane comes up beside me and offers me her arm. I link myself with her as she places a gentle kiss on my cheek. My heartbeat quickens and I become acutely aware of the shift happening. Cold is replaced with warmth. And I question that if it is fear I have come to understand or love as we make our way downstairs.

* * *

Garret and Sumner are the first to arrive. They bring three bottles of _Krug Brut_, a vintage from 1988 that I'm sure Garret has picked from his personal reserve. I retrieve flutes from the cabinet as Garrett pops the cork.

"Maura. Wow. You look beautiful."

I give him a curt smile as he places a friendly kiss on my cheek.

"Thank you. Garrett." I turn my attention to Jane; "This is Jane Rizzoli."

"So nice to meet you. You both look absolutely breathtaking."

Jane gives me a smug smile and I can't help to roll my eyes.

"My apologies for Adam not being here. I know he is in town, but we haven't been the best at keeping touch as of late." Garrett says as he pours our drinks.

"Adam is an asshole." Sumner chimes in matter of factly; "Are those oysters I see over there, Maura?"

"Yes, please, help yourself."

"A toast." Garrett raises his glass; "To a wonderful night."

"To a wonderful night." I echo and bring the glass to my lips.

"Wow. That is good!" Jane's eyes are wide and I nod in agreement.

The door opens and Frankie enters with a petite, brunette woman by his side.

"Hey, you clean up nice, Janie." He pushes his sister playfully in the shoulder.

"You're not too bad lookin' yourself. Who's this?"

"Oh, this is Lola." He wraps his arm around the woman's waist and Jane extends her hand.

"Nice to meet you, Lola. I'm Jane and this is Maura. That's Garrett and Sumner"

Her eyes are immediately drawn to Jane's hands as they shake. I see the smallest glint of excitement behind them and an uneasy air settles around me.

"A pleasure." I extend my hand and take hers into a firm grasp. She is taken aback, I can tell. My eyes never leave hers. I break the contact and turn to Jane.

"Help me with the food?"

Jane sets out the oysters while I plate the Branzino and sirloin. I pause over the setting for Lola and my eyes pick her out in the living room. She is close to Frankie, doing her best to listen, but her interest lies with Jane. Her eyes won't leave her. They follow her, and when Jane comes up beside Frankie they focus and darken. I plate her sirloin.

Vinaigrette and reduction added to the plates, I set the table.

"Dinner is served. I hope you don't mind Lola, I plated you the sirloin." I say as everyone takes their seats.

"No. That is fine, thank you." she says dryly and I do my best to contain the snarl I feel creeping into my lip.

"Ugh, it's looking at me like I personally put the hook in." Jane says in a hushed tone as I take my seat next to her. I let out a small laugh.

"How am I supposed to eat that?

I pick up my own utensils and point to hers.

"Use the fish knife."

She stares at me blankly.

"It is next to the melon spoon. Second from the right. Hold it like a pencil." I flip the knife in my hand as though I am writing.

"Uh huh."

"Use the tip to cut the backbone." I demonstrate as she watches my hands intently.

"You cut the tail and place it on the side of the plate. Use the edge of the knife to remove the skin and place it at the back of the plate."

"Yeah, okay. This is how we do it in my family."

She brings the knife down and sends it through the fish. The pressure causes its eyeball to rupture and send a stream of juice up and onto her dress.

"UGH!"

"She said like a pencil, Janie." Frankie says from beside her and then motions at his own plate that mirrors mine almost perfectly.

"Just eat it. It's delicious." I say and bring my fork to my lips as Jane blots her dress with a napkin.

Conversation is kept light. Garrett discuss his new clothing line in Milan while Sumner works on getting drunk.

I glance around the table, but my attention keeps being brought back to Lola. Her features are subtly dark and her lithe frame reminds me of the orphaned stable boy I killed in France.

_I was fourteen._

_He had been a stable hand on my adoptive father's ranch in the French countryside._

_I had woken up to the whines from the mares in the barn near my window. When I went down to investigate I saw him switching their hides. Small lines of blood rose up from under their coats._

_When he moved on to my horse I walked with purpose up to the shoe bench and picked up the hammer there. I grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him. I swung and brought the flat head to the center of his chest with all my might and he fell to the ground without another beat of his heart._

_I saddled my horse and I bound his ankles with rope. I mounted and rode side saddle to the edge of our property, his body dragging behind me. I hid him in nearby brush and rode home. I cleaned and brushed each mare and returned to bed just as the sun began to rise._

_Weeks later I watched out my bedroom window as the local police talked to my father. I watched them pull back the cloth from the stable boys body they had brought out from the back of a van. He was bloated. His skin was seeping and peeling away from the country sun. A black bruise had grown and spidered out from the center of his chest._

_Afterwards I had rode happily around the property in the warmth of the sun_.

"Maura, are you finished?"

I am brought back to my thoughts by Jane who is looking between my plate and me.

"Oh, yes. Thank you."

"That was amazing, Maura. You are a culinary genius." Garrett gushes.

I rise from my seat and join Jane in the kitchen.

"Wait to clean up. We still have dessert."

"None for me. If it is anything like dinner I'm not ready for something that I have to solve like a rubik's cube to eat."

"I doubt you will like this anyway. Tomato sorbet with a sweetbreads garnish."

Jane cringes and I smile.

"No, I didn't think so." I turn my attention to Garrett and Sumner; "Would you gentlemen like dessert?"

Both men smile and Lola gives a curt hand raise; "Me too, please."

Frankie finishes the last of his champagne and shakes his head; "Tomato sorbet? Ack. None for me, thanks."

I knew neither Rizzoli would care of the dessert and that is why I had chosen it.

Sumner wanders the living room with his fifth glass of champagne, when he sticks his head into the parlor.

"Do you still play, Maura?"

Jane looks at Sumner and then me and mouths 'play' with a hint of confusion.

"Occasionally."

"You should." Sumner pushes with a smile as he makes his way into the kitchen and I hand him a small bowl.

"Please do!" Garrett chimes in as he takes his own bowl.

I bring a spoonful of sorbet to my lips and taste the delicate mixture of zest and sweetness.

"If you insist."

* * *

The spaces in between is where music hides. It expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent. There is a depth and beauty that words cannot do justice to. It is a space in which you can be lost and found.

I open the french doors to my parlor. I take my place on the bench at the baby grand piano and lift its heavy mahogany lid. The keys are smooth. Real ebony and ivory. It was an heirloom passed down from my adoptive father. And if asked I would gauge it to be about 200 years old.

I can feel a small presence gather behind me as I begin the opening notes to _Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata_.

Heavy notes fill the room and I feel like I am being swept over by the sea. I close my eyes and muscle memory leads me. I've always enjoyed this particular piece. It is non-sequitur in a beautiful way. It dances between light and dark; pulling away and leading back.

When I open my eyes I see Jane has moved from the grouping behind me to beside the piano and in my line of sight. She watches me with reverence; an appreciation I have never seen and I know it isn't reserved of me, but rather what fills the room. It moves her, and in this moment if the world were to crack and spin madly away, I'd happily go with it. I blink and save the look in her eyes to memory. I find it hard to do anything else other than watch her.

I play the last of the notes; they fade and fall away, dying in the air.

"Beautiful" Garrett says; "Absolutely amazing."

"Janie you should play!" Frankie says.

"What? No. No no no. I can't follow that up." Jane throws her hands up in protest.

I close the lid and rise from the bench.

"I'd love to hear you play." I say towards Jane. I can't control the want that tumbles out with my request and I watch small sea of worry and excitement churn in darkened eyes.

* * *

"A lovely evening as usual, Maura. Thank you for having us." Garrett places a chaste kiss on mine and then Jane's cheek.

"Always a pleasure to have old friends for dinner."

"Come on you drunk." Garrett slaps Sumner on his back causing him to stumble out the door.

Frankie says his goodbyes and Lola gives a curt nod of thanks as they walk out the door. I watch as she glances back over her shoulder and close the door from intruding eyes.

I turn to find Jane gone from the room. I look around curiously until I begin to awaken. _Goldberg Variations_ carries from the parlor. I follow the music and watch her from the french doors. She plays without hesitation and I feel like I am watching her from above. The notes carry and weave with a sad beauty that only Jane's hands could bring. I come and join her on the bench. She watches me sit; her hands never missing a note and gives me a small smile.

I play in tandem with her. My lows coexisting with her highs. They connect and compose. It is as though the room has been brought to life. Something almost tangible. She guides me and I follow. She speaks and I respond. Her hands many consider to be broken and scarred; including herself; carry a delicate strength to them. They are durable and strong, yet refined and beautiful in this moment.

In every moment. She is something to marvel in. She is deceptively complex. She is bold and brash.

She is beauty and grace. Her points connect.

"I used to sit at the Musee d'Orsay for hours and just stare at it." I begin.

"Do you know what I mean? To see such refined beauty? Have you ever tried to appreciate Euler's number e? It is a beautiful equation that connects three constants of mathematics."

I stop playing and gently rest my hands on top of her and she stills.

"Have you?"

She looks at me and shakes her head. I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her palm. I expect her to pull away. But instead her thumb traces my brow and rests at my temple before I guide our hands to my lap.

"I am in awe of what human beings can do."

She kisses me then. It is filled with a silent understanding and adoration. And I realize then that even this is music; a depth and beauty words cannot do justice to. Finite events and unique arrangements in which harmony and dissonance exist in a world together.

* * *

**P.S A/N:** _"It expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent. There is a depth and beauty that words cannot do justice to"_ is a quote from Victor Hugo. The last line is a bit of a twist on what Hannibal says in the actual show. Something that has stuck with me and made me want to really push forward with this story when the idea came to me.


	7. Inferno, Purgatory, Paradise

**A/N: Phew. Work has been a beast as of late, so what is a life? I'm sorry for the delay getting this chapter up, but thank you guys so much for your reviews, follows and your patience. Also I was expecting a tiny bit of backlash considering nearly 3/4 of Maura's dinner party had a Feast of Crowe and pretty much ate their brother.. but, hey, we're all good here with cannibalism, so yeah. More murderous Maura!**

* * *

It had been three days six hours and thirty-two minutes since Jane had kissed me last. Since her eyes conveyed a kind of love and understanding that I had never seen before or had the privilege of seeing directed at me.

For me.

Now we are standing across from each other in the morgue, a table with Darren Crowe between us and her eyes are unreadable.

"Tell me again."

Her voice is monotone but low and her arms stay crossed. Her eyes stay fixed on the table and I open the file in my hand.

"Found at 12:46 this morning by a hunter who came onto the property. Victim was hanging from a tree with by 3/16" diamond braid nylon rope wrapped around his neck in the form on a hangmans noose. Torso was eviscerated by what appears to be wild animals. Size of claw and teeth marks on the bone are consistent with Ursus Americanus.

Jane looks at me expectantly.

"A black bear." I offer.

"What about his eyes?"

I lean in closely the dead mans face. His eyes have been pecked at and are shriveled in their sockets. His skin is blotched with black and purple around his neck and the color seeps into his cheeks.

"Birds most likely." and I suppress my smile.

The door opens behind Jane. Frost immediately runs to the sink and throws up. Korsak joins with Jane opposite of me.

"What a shame. Darren was good cop." Korsak says solemnly.

"A crooked one." Jane says and it makes Korsak shift awkwardly. She leans down and looks between the dead mans body. His spine barely keeps his two halves together.

"What's this?" she points to a small hole in the skin in what is left of his abdomen.

"It appears the victim had stitches in him. No trace of them was found at the scene." I say.

_'The devil is in the details'_ rolls over in my head.

"You think it was a hit?" Frosts asks. His elbows are propped up on the sink and his head is cradled in his hands.

"Maybe. Rumor was he had a lot of shady dealings in Southie. Cavanaugh is checking into it." Jane calls over her shoulder.

"Crazy fucking psychopath." Korsak mumbles under his breath.

I pull the sheet up and over the dead mans body; "Psychopaths are not crazy. They are fully aware of what they do and the consequences of those actions."

_I am aware._

"So whoever went up there had the premeditated intention to kill Crowe." Korsak states.

"It would appear that way, yes." I turn and shut off the examination light and bite the inside of my cheek. I inwardly implore Korsak to stay with the idea of Darren Crowe just being another body turning up because of Boston's seedy underbelly.

I roll Crowe into cold storage and leave him there with our secret. Jane is waiting for me by the doors of the lab when I come out. It is nearly 4am when we walk out the building together. Jane's hand finds mine and pulls me close. I rest my head on her shoulder as she walks me to my car and feel a sense of contentment settle over me.

"See you in five hours." she kisses me and looks exhausted.

"You can come home with me." I offer.

She kisses me again and shakes her head.

"Go home and rest. I need some time to myself."

"Because of Darren?"

I can see the flash of anger in her eyes; like a storm passing through.

"He was a cop, Maur."

"I know."

"But that didn't make him a good man."

"Are you upset that he's dead?"

"He was a cop." she says it again and I know she is not but rather convincing herself to find a way to be.

"Okay." and I can see her relax when she knows I understand. I kiss her again and unlock my car. She opens the door for me and gives me a weak smile as she closes it. I hesitate for a moment and look at her. She gives me a crooked look before bringing her hands up beside her head like a prayer and resting it there.

"Go home and sleep, woman." she says through my window.

I relent and start my car. Driving off I watch Jane in my rearview bring her fists down hard on her cruisers trunk and tangle her hands into her hair before kicking a tire and getting in.

* * *

Rest doesn't come. A call from Frost pulls me from bed after only three hours.

I'm staring into the open chest cavity of James Stern. White male, twenty eight years old and his heart is frozen.

Frost enters the lab and immediately turns away from me and the body on the table.

"Hey Doc."

I give Frost a small smile. I've always liked him.

"Guy isn't exactly husband of the year. Beat the crap out of her. Put her in the hospital a couple times."

"Cold heart."

"No kiddin'."

"No. His actual heart is frozen." I knock on it for emphasis and Frost wretches.

I lean down close to the open chest cavity; "So is his right lung."

"What does that mean?" Frost asks, taking a step towards me. He keeps his closed fist over his mouth.

"He wasn't killed recently. He's been in cold storage."

"So he's been in the freezer."

"Or possibly a meat locker. I've stored bodies for months."

Frost gives me a pointed stare and I realize how that sounded.

"Unidentified bodies in ten degrees without a sign of decomposition." I remember Crowe's kidney bagged neatly in my freezer and remind myself to pick up shallots and sherry on my way home.

"How long has he been dead?" Frost asks.

"Well how long has he been missing?"

"Two years."

I nod; "It's possible."

Frost is quiet for a moment and his face changes from thought to concern as he walks over the table. He points to the dead man's wrist.

"Doc, what's this?"

"Adhesive residue from duct tape. His hands were taped together. Blanched indentations around his mouth suggest it was also taped."

"Did the killer use a scalpel?" his tone is serious and I understand why. My stomach drops and I inwardly curse myself for not seeing it before.

Frost turns and slams his hand on autopsy table behind him and I share in his anger silently.

"This is bullshit. She shouldn't have to keep dealing with this twisted fuck from behind bars."

He turns towards me, his face softening; "I'm sorry."

I wave off his apology; "It is okay. Frustrations are running high today. I understand."

Frost looks at me sadly and averts his eyes to the ground; "I just-.."

"Jane is resilient." I say quietly and Frost looks lost. I can tell he wants to do so much more; provide something for Jane. Protection. Loyalty.

"She is strong. It is ingrained in her." I say; "Jane is a deep roller."

Frost looks at me questioningly and I come around the table. I remove my gloves and stand beside him; letting out a small sigh.

"Roller pigeons. There are shallow rollers and deep rollers." I bring my hand up in an arc; "Roller pigeons fly high into the air and roll over and over backwards in a display. Shallow rollers pull up quickly-" I bring my hand down and then cut back up into an arc just as fast; "-where as deep rollers continue their freefall and pull up before it is too late. You can't breed two deep rollers. Their offspring will roll, crash and die." My hand begins its descent again until it claps against the other. Its sound echoes in the sterileness of the room.

"Jane is smart. She is acute and she is sharp. She uses all that she has in her to do her job. It is who she is. It is what she does. It is hardwired in her. Jane is a deep roller. Let's hope that one of her parents was not."

Frost chews on this and looks at me; "Hoyt is the only thing that scares her."

"I know. Fear is an irrational propellent."

"He'll kill her."

"I know" I say quietly, and I can feel the worry creep into my voice; "I know."

* * *

Jane looks at the pictures on her coffee table and she brings her fingers to her temples and presses them there before rubbing her eyes.

"It's him, Maura."

She stands and walks to her desk; "I wasn't going to say anything, because personally, I thought someone was screwing with me."

She hands me a bag with a burnt out flare in it. Anger and shock well in the pit of my stomach.

"I'm going to call Frost and we are going to some get patrol officers out here and you are going to get some sleep." I say, pulling up Frost's name in my phone.

"Yeah, well, not until the cavalry gets here, okay." She deadpans and picks up her gun from the coffee table.

"I'll stay." and she looks at me with a mixture of amusement and surprise.

"What are you gonna' do? Hit him over the head with your Birkin bag?"

I almost roll my eyes. I narrow them instead and purse my lips.

"Give me that." I hold my hand out expectantly for her gun.

"What? No. It's loaded." she pulls back and tucks the gun into the side of the couch like she is a child. Clearly sharing isn't caring.

"I'll stay up!"

"It's loaded. No." now I feel like the child.

"Magazine capacity fifteen. Trigger pull two point five milligrams. Line of sight a hundred and fifty three millimeters."

"Have you ever shot one?" she cuts me off before I can mention recoil.

"Umm."

Silence. She grits her teeth into a forced smile and I do the same. I'm caught.

"No." I shake my head.

She does the same in agreeance; "No." and then lets out a nervous laugh.

"But I'm a fast learner." I am serious and the look she gives me is soft as she relents and drops the magazine out and clears the chamber.

"Okay. It's empty."

And I know this is her trust.

* * *

It's a little after 2am and she is asleep.

I sit on the edge of the bed and watch the steady rise and fall of her chest and her face is etched with small flickers of pain.

I wonder if she is dreaming.

And it is a different kind of intimacy to watch Jane sleep. She rarely experiences quiet moments, and even in her dreams she isn't granted them. I find myself relating to the feeling all too well.

When I stand she turns to her side and pats the spot behind her.

"C'mere"

I make my way around the bed and place Jane's gun on the bedside table and lay beside her; conforming my body against hers. And with her back against me and my arms around her, Jane has entrusted me for a second time tonight.

"What if something happens?"

"You have my gun?" she pushes back into me and I nuzzle my nose into the nape of her neck.

"Yes."

"Mm'kay. You'll get 'im."

I stay like that; wrapped around her until her breathing evens out. She lays in my arms and I am her protector. I watch the sky pass from midnight black to the beginnings of blue. And I wish to outrun the sun if only for today; just to keep this quiet moment. A construct of safety I'd happily design just for her.

And it weighs on me then; happiness. I hope that Jane knows it. Unequivocally experiences it. It's then that the thought occurs to me if I am deserving of it myself. It is nearly 6am when I remove myself from around her. She sounds of of disappoint and loss and absently reaches out for a body and warmth that is no longer there.

I make my way to her side of the bed and the features of her face are serene. Contentment has settle there. And an idea strikes me as I read the subtle lines around her eyes. I gently kiss space between her ear and cheek before I return to the living room; love almost falling past my lips.

* * *

This is how you treat monsters. You bind them in metal and confine them. You take away their sight and confuse them, and yet they still grasp at any idea of control that they can sense.

I have every intention of taking away Charles Hoyt's control.

"I smell lavender and fear."

And when Agent Dean removes his hood I can tell he is initially confused.

"Hello Mr. Hoyt." I am cordial.

"Doctor Isles." he laughs and I smile; "You must be very proud of yourself, that's a play I didn't see."

He looks me over; "And what brings you here? The same thing that brings me? Jane." he says her name snidely and control the urge to come across the table and wrap my hands around his neck.

"Mr. Hoyt, I-.."

"I usually ask people to address me as Doctor. I nearly completed medical school."

I lean forward on the table. His delusions of grandeur are unbecoming and I am hardly about to adhere to the twisted sense of superiority he thinks he has, let alone reward him with a diploma to hang on his cell wall.

"But you didn't, Mr. Hoyt. Though that is why you are so precise when you sever the carotid arteries of your victims."

He swims in the complement; "Well I've always been quite deft with a scalpel."

I remove a scalpel from my purse; "Hold him down in that chair."

I make my way around the table as Dean pushes down on Hoyt's shoulders. I keep my eyes locked with his.

"You going to show me your technique?" and picture myself easily slitting his throat and watching contently as he bleeds out on the table.

I unbutton his prison garb and I hear him breathe me in.

"You do smell like lavender."

I cut the seam above his left breast, over his heart.

"Fifty, fifty polyester cotton blend fabric shows every winkle after a lot of use." and I remove a picture of Jane.

Behind me officers set up a camera as I take my seat back across from Hoyt.

He looks at the camera when an officer switches it on then looks at me; "I assume this is for your research."

"You assume correctly."

"Facial action coding system. You think you're going to dissect my facial expressions?"

I remember Jane's face she slept; how worry was replaced with peace.

I remove a picture of a blonde woman from the folder in front of me and slide it across the table to the picture beside Jane.

"Where is Emily Stern?"

"Oh, not far." he looks at the picture with a nostalgic look; "You know she cried when I slit her husband's throat."

"Why now?" I lean forward on the table; "Why have whoever is working for you pull James Stern out of cold storage now?"

He tilts his head and a small snarl twitches at the corner of his mouth; "What's this?"

I sit back; "Anger."

He downcasts his eyes and does his best forlorn look; "And this?"

"Empathy, something you don't feel." and neither do I.

"I can mimic any emotion doctor, pretty good, huh?"

"Will you tell if you plan to hurt Jane?"

"Oh, I do. I plan to kill her. Mentally kill her and keep her alive until I get out of here and finish her with my hands. I want to feel her blood covering my hands."

And I believe him.

"You're not going to get out of here."

"But don't worry doctor, I'm not going to kill you." he jumps in his seat as though he is readying himself to come across the table; "Rape you maybe."

I remain stoic and until I almost laugh; "You're clearly trying to frighten me."

"I am."

I lean forward again and catch myself reaching for the scalpel in my lap; "I'm not afraid of you."

"I know. Because you're like me."

He leans back in his chair and gives me a look as though he understands me.

"Do you know horror, Doctor Isles? It is almost impossible to describe it to those who do not know what horror means. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If not, then they are enemies to be feared. I've seen horror. I've inflicted it. I find comfort in its embrace and I am loved by it."

I stand; "We are done here."

As the officers put together the camera equipment and I walk towards the door, I stop and place my hand on Hoyt's shoulder; leaning down close to his ear.

"I am nothing like you. I am far worse than anything you could ever be." I say before I take my leave.

"Thank you, Doctor Isles." floats out behind me.

* * *

It is late and I am sitting at Jane's desk. I hadn't heard from her since her encounter with Hoyt in the interrogation room. She had only sent me a text saying that she was going home and to come over later.

I pull up the still from the video Korsak had found in the basement and Hoyt's words echo in the back of my head when I notice Frankie's film strip in the file basket on Jane's desk.

_"She's not far."_

I had felt it at dinner when Lola had shown up a few nights ago and now I understood why.

I gather my things quietly and say a quick goodnight as I pass Korsak and Frost on my way to elevators and to Jane's apartment.

Worry mixes with anger and it settles over me. When I arrive at Jane's I make my way up the steps quickly and when I knock on her door Lola answers. She is surprised but I am not..

"Why are you in Jane's apartment?" I step past her.

"I'm making dinner for her and Frankie."

Lola closes the door and makes her way back to the stove.

"Where are they?"

She waves in in the direction of Jane's bedroom; "Brother, sister bonding time."

She doesn't look at me when she speaks and my anger swarms inside of me.

"I just need to ask her something." I begin to walk back to the bedroom when Lola picks up the knife off the cutting board. She points at me and I take a step towards her.

"I wouldn't do that." I keep my voice low. It is the only warning I will give her.

"You don't really leave me a choice."

I am almost impressed with her temperament.

_Almost._

My eyes stay fixed on her as she walks towards me. She keeps the knife's point fixed on me.

"Did you kill her?"

She lets out a small laugh and I talk another step forward and close the distance between us. She presses the tip of the knife into my chest and I feel its pinch as she makes a small cut there. My expression doesn't change.

"She's alive."

It is all I need to move quickly. I catch her wrist and bring hand up above her head while I close my hand around her throat. She scratches and claws at me. She tries to twist her arm free but grip is a vice. I push forward and keep my arm firmly extended as I back her up towards the wall and towards the coat hook I see perched on it. When her back hits the wall I let go of her neck and cover her face with my hand and push her head back with all my force. The hook pierces her cerebellum and her arm goes slack in my hand causing the knife to fall to the floor. I step back and her she stares at me; her expression is shock. I can see her pupils widen and I hate her eyes. I come forward quickly and press my thumbs until they disappear up to the joint in her sockets. Her body stiffens for a last time as aqueous and vitreous humor from her eyes run down my hands. The anger that has built itself up inside of me erupts as I press my face into the dead woman's chest and let go of the scream that had been perched under my chin since I step foot in the door. The enormity of what I've done comes into into focus. I've killed in Jane's home.

I leave her there, like a tortured ornament and make my way back to Jane's room. She is bound on the floor with Frankie beside her.

"Maura!"

She struggles against the cuffs around her wrists as I kneel in front of her. She stops when she notices the cut on my chest and the marks from Lola's nails on my face and neck.

"What did she do to you?!"

"It doesn't matter. I am fine. Where are your keys?"

"Where is she?! Did she run? We have to call Frost and Korsak. Lola is Emily Stern. She is Hoyt's apprentice."

"She didn't run. She is dead. Where are your keys?" my voice is low and monotone. I feel shut off.

"She's what?"

And when I look up at Jane there is confusion and worry in her eyes

"She's dead."

Jane looks at Frankie and shuts her eyes tightly; "The keys are in my bedside drawer. There is a pocket knife in there too."

I retrieve the keys and knife. I hand Jane the keys and am careful to not let my hands touch hers. They are stained with blood and visions of what I've done. I cut the duct tape off of her and Frankie and as I stand back up, Jane walks past me to the living room and I hear her muffled gasp.

Frankie looks at me with empathy; "Are you okay?"

I can only nod.

Frankie walks to the living room and I follow. Jane is on the phone with dispatch and I sit silently on the couch. When she hangs up, Jane walks to me and kneels in front of me, her hands on my knees.

"She attacked you."

_I provoked her. I wanted to kill her._

"Yes." I say quietly. I knit my hands together in my lap and look at the woman on the wall. Blood has begun to pool at her feet. Her shirt is stained front and back with it.

"I'm sorry."

I look at Jane incredulously and shake my head; "For what?"

"For you having to do that. To experience that. You shouldn't have to had been in that situation. You had no way of knowing she would be here."

_Only I did._

I stay quiet and Jane sits beside me, burying her hands in her hair. When Frost and Korask arrive Jane speaks for me. She explains what happened to her and Frankie. How Emily held them at gunpoint. How I had arrived and she attacked me, and how in self-defense we had both fallen back torwards the wall, causing Emily to get impaled on the coat hook.

I nod with the statement Jane gives and when when the body is removed and everyone has cleared, we are left alone with each other.

"I'll drive you home." Jane says, gathering her keys.

"Pack a bag. You can't stay here."

She looks at the wall and then back at me and nods.

* * *

The shower I take is near scalding. Crimson swirls in the tubs basin and disappears. And for the first time in my life I feel regret.

Regret for being unable to control myself. For allowing that side to take over. I am unclean. And for a time as the water burns and soothes my skin, I hate myself.

But what I wouldn't give to protect Jane; to preserve her life.

With my shower done, I dry off and put my robe on. When I walk back into my bedroom, Jane is sitting on the bed, her hair still wet and dressed in a plain shirt and boxers.

"Hey." she gives me a weak smile and pats the bed next to her; "Sit down."

I do and she takes my hands in hers; "Are you okay?" and when I stay silent, she gives my hands a small squeeze; "Come on Maura, talk to me. I know there is something going on in that big google brain of yours."

"I don't think I had ever felt more worried in my life than I did today." I pause for a moment and meet Jane's eyes with my own; "I can't lose you."

"You didn't, and you won't."

"But Hoyt-.."

"Is a freak. I saw the video of your interview with him."

"Maybe he's not wrong." I say

"What are you talking about?"

"I did a lot of research into his background, his childhood. Maybe I am a little bit like him."

_I am just like him._

Jane is taken aback and she brings her legs up and under her on the bed and turns so that she is facing me; "Maura, look at me. You are nothing like him."

I look at her and she cups my face in her hands and I fight the urge to pull away from her. I am undeserving of her grace, of her touch.

Of her. I can tell she senses my uncertainty.

I try to find my voice and explain without explaining to her. I bring her hands back down to my lap.

"I.. I don't know, Jane. I was a weird kid."

"What? Were you killing small animals?"

_No, just stable hands._

"No, but I dissected a lot of frogs."

"No." she shakes her head; "That's different."

I stand and begin to pace the room. She watches me.

"I spent a lot of time alone. You know, I was adopted and my father was a professor and my mother, she came from a wealthy family and I was an only child and-"

"Here it comes, there _are_ bodies buried in your basement." she says sarcastically.

My heart sinks as I sit back on the bed and Jane has her arm around my shoulders.

"Hey, no. I was just joking. I'm sorry."

I shake my head; "There was a lot of benign neglect. It's just that I didn't ask for much. I don't think I really knew how. And the less I would ask for the less time they would have for me. I was just really lost."

She wraps her arms fully around me and envelopes me. And my worry disappears. She is safety. She is forgiveness and I can feel her words against my skin, mixing with my hair and falling onto my ears.

"No matter what happened to you, you are nothing like that monster, okay? Yeah, maybe you are a little anti-social and little goofy, but that's not the same thing. And those are the things that I lov-.."

She stops herself and I can feel my heartbeat quicken. Heat rises in my chest and I feel like I am on fire and when I lean back in her embrace I know my eyes are conveying what I can't find words for.

_Say it. Please._

"Those are the things that make you, you."

I kiss her then. Reverently. I want to believe her. I want to believe that I am not those things. That I'm not a monster that needs to be confined to metal and chains. I kiss her for her sorrow and for my own. I kiss her for her protection and to be her protector. I kiss her because of love.

I pull gently at the hem of her shirt and my fingers graze over warm skin. She is on fire too. She breaks our kiss and rests her forehead against mine. Her hand wraps around the back of my neck and she holds my gaze steady with her own. Her eyes are dark and I am lost there. I pull at her shirt again and she raises her arms and I discard it on the floor.

She is beautiful and when she moves above me. She casts a shadow like statues. She settles between me and her lips find the pulse point in my neck. Her ministrations are slow and she moves against me unhurried. Time has no place here with us.

My hands move to her hips and then roam over her back. I feel her muscles contract and relax with each roll of her hips against me. And when her lips find mine again, I slip my hand past the band of her boxers and I feel her breath catch in her throat when I move slowly inside of her. And there something clicks into my place within my heart. She moves against my hand slowly and buries her face into my neck; suppressing the soft moans I can hear falling out of her.

And when we are gone, our energy will remain long after in this room. Transposed and ingrained in the air. Like a string it will reverberate and replay itself. She moves across my chest and pulls at the tie on my robe. Her hand presses against the skin above my heart while her the other moves between our bodies. She parts me, runs her fingers the length of me and finds where I need her most.

My fingers trails across her shoulders and find the nape of her neck. Her fingers move against me; circling me, and I can feel myself coming undone.

I close my eyes and it is black. Expanses of the color and I focus on it. I am suddenly open. I am vulnerable. I am losing control in a beautiful way, and I'm not sure if I can take it. I will fall apart in her arms. If I do, I am irrevocably hers.

She knows.

"Stay with me." The words are like heat against my skin.

"Jane." I am barely able to breathe. Her name comes in short breaths.

"Stay with me, please."

I can hear the hitch in her voice. It is pleading and her hips begin a quicker pace. She is falling apart too. Her lips find mine again. Our kiss is uncoordinated and when she tightens around me, she comes undone. I catch her sound against my lips and swallow it. I bury it inside of me and lock it away. It is reserved only for me and I know it. It is beautiful.

And when her trembling subsides, my own begins. I know she is looking at me and I can't bring myself to do the same for her. The beginnings of star bursts of color crack and break through behind my eyes.

"Look at me." Her voice is soft, encouraging.

I can't.

She kisses me lightly and I am balancing on a dangerous edge.

"Maura, look at me."

And I do. Her voice leads me and I let go. Her eyes never leave mine and there is trust behind them; like a secret she keeps for me.

She gathers me. She finds my pieces and gently puts me back together with her. She falls beside me and pulls at my arm and wraps it around her. We fit and it is perfect.

We lay there for sometime in a comfortable silence, until we move up on the bed together.

She keeps her back against me and laces our fingers together; bringing our hands against her chest; above her heart. I feel her kiss my knuckles.

My lips brush against her shoulder blade and I gently trail my lips over her back. I kiss her and kiss her. I kiss her for every knife ever placed there from every Brutus act, and I tighten around her to protect her from my own. It is sweet and it is salvation. It is desperation.

I close my eyes as I begin the tranquil lines of Dante Alighieri quietly against soft skin like a prayer.

_The first three hours of the night were almost spent/The time that every star shines down on us/When love appeared to me so suddenly that I still shudder at the memory/Joyous love seemed to me the while he held my heart within his hands/And in my arms my lady lay asleep wrapped in a veil/He woke her then and trembling and obedient she ate that burning heart from out of his hand._

_"Piangendo, ho visto poi allontanati da me._" I finish.

"Weeping, I saw him then depart from me." A quiet voice says.

Jane lets go of my hand and turns so that she is facing me; "I didn't know you spoke Italian."

"Nor I you."

"I _am_ Italian." she says with a smile.

"You never speak it."

She shrugs and brings her fingers to my face; tracing my features.

"I guess there's some things you don't know about me."

I shift against the pillow with a deep sigh. I silently share the sentiment with her as her lips press against my forehead. I close my eyes and am strangely content.

"Do you know Dante?" I ask looking at her

"Not personally." her fingers continue their path as she watches them.

I pinch her elbow playfully and a small laugh rumbles in the back of her throat.

"The name of that particular sonnet is _A ciascun'alma presa e gentil core._" I say. She is outlining my ear.

"To every loving, gentle hearted friend." she echos.

She trails her finger across my cheek and over my nose and lips. Down my throat and to space above my heart where she traces the childlike shape of it over and over.

"And more than that."

There is a tentative sobriety in her voice. Her eyes meet with mine for a moment and then are gone; focusing on the pattern of her hands. It is a question, not a statement.

"Much more than that." I still her hand and press her palm into my chest.

_"Un amante."_ I state simply.

She pushes me back gently and is above me again.

She kisses me and I feel a subtle roll of her hips.

_"il mio amore."_ she whispers against my lips before taking them in sweet kiss. I breathe in the words and gasp when her other hand slips between us.

There in the dark a small fire erupts in my chest and lights our way. And when she moves in me I am complete.

_my love, my love, my love._

And with her words repeating like a mantra, she unknowingly then ate my heart.

* * *

**P.S A/N:** I know Jane and her speaking Italian is purely headcanon, but lets have some fun here with that, mkay? Also, bonus points if anyone can guess where part of Hoyt's little "horror" speech is from.


	8. A Sin To Hold On To

**A/N: **You guys, wow. I feel like this story has garnered some sort of little following, so thank you for everyone who has stuck with this so far. Thank you for the follows and the reviews and just everything. Especially the reviews. Just, wow. Yeah. You all blow me away. Thank you. I know when this thing started I said I was going to use the episodes as a backdrop for the story, but then some how the episodes completely became woven into the story. I'm sorry if the canon scenes seem repetitive (as I'm sure we have all seen the episodes many of times) but I kind of like the idea of this dark characterization of Maura being hidden there and veering off. This chapter does a lot of that (and I hope it makes sense) I had a few outlines for this, but decided to go with this particular one (and someone take the wheel, because I hope it works). As always, you all reading is what makes this story so worth it and the amazing (and constructive) things you all say. We will get back on the murder track in the next chapter. Also! All the bonus points to those who guess **Apocalypse Now. **Plus some _Hannibal _(tv) showing up here.

* * *

My world has color. Long, sweeping brush strokes. It is brighter. It is alive.

Thriving.

My heart beats differently. It had laid dormant for so long in the grave of my chest. Walls built around it; brick meticulously laid next to brick, undeserving of warmth. I thought I was undeserving. But now red pumps through blue. And if I were to bleed, it'd be a spectrum.

We had been given the week off after the ordeal with Emily Stern and have not left each other's side. We make love every day, and the experience is always new. Our exploration and attentiveness. It drives us to the other. We build on the structures of us. We create a construct.

And sometimes the pull is too great. I need to feel her skin under my hands and her lips on mine; and she always grants me this. And when it becomes too great for her, I grant her the same.

We lay in bed and each morning Jane walks her fingers up my chest and perches them under my chin and brings my lips hers. She speaks to me in Italian because I ask. Some days she recites Dante, others she names off appliances in the kitchen. This morning she reads the back of the cereal box. And I don't care what she says as long as she is saying it to me. Her syntax is perfect and she teaches me. She teaches me how to conform my mouth around the words and steals a kiss from me each time she brings her hands to my cheeks pushes them out, puckering my lips.

_"E sì come la mente mi ridice. Amor mi disse: "Quell'è Primavera E quell'ha nome Amor, sì mi somiglia."_

She tells me loves me in ways I never thought imaginable. And though the words in the most literal sense have not been said; I know that she does.

And part of me bends to say it myself, but I feel that it is something Jane must do; her heart doesn't come easily into the hands of another. And how I have come this far into her I don't know; to be granted entrance to a strong but delicate muscle, but I do not care to understand. I love her and that is what I know.

We are sitting in the parlor. She is playing Bach's _Piano Concerto No.7_. I listen intently and try to deduct what key it is in. I am by the windows sketching the Duomo from memory. I had been captivated by the architecture of Florence when I had studied abroad one year. I set down the charcoal on the windowsill and blend; creating shadows in corners and ushering in light. It is simple in black and white, but shades of grey add unseen complexities.

I set down my sketch pad and look at Jane. She is engulfed in the music, and not only do notes fill the room, but also her heart. I feel that pull again. It is a want.

No.

A need to feel her. I walk towards her, behind her, and sweeping her hair to the side a place a light kiss behind her ear.

"Have you been to Florence?" I want to take her there and make love to her while a breeze sweeps over us from the terrace. I want to taste wine. I want to taste her.

She hums as I nip and run the tip of my tongue against her ear and doesn't miss a note. She tilts her head and gives me greater access. My lips trail down her neck as my hands ghost down her sides.

"No." she husks as I pull up on her shirt.

"I want to take you there."

The music stops then and she turns on the bench to face me. A smile tugs at her lips and her eyes trail down my body. Her hands find the string of my yoga pants and she gently pulls the knot free. She pushes them down slowly so that they rest low on my hips. Her teeth nip and her lips graze across me. And as the last barriers are pushed away further, I step out of them and my hands run through her hair. Her hands are on my hips and she pulls me into her her lap, and I settle myself there; balanced on either side of her legs.

And she stills for a moment. Her eyes flicker with mischievousness as she runs her hands along my sides, pushing my shirt up and above me. She tosses it and it lands haphazardly on the keys behind her. Fingertips trail across my shoulders, then unhook my bra and move down my arms. And she does this; tracing me; reading me. Trying to remember every inch; become familiar with all that I am and saving it to memory. It is an appreciation that I have never felt. And I watch her. How her hands move across me and how her eyes do as well, until they find mine. And when I lean down to meet her mouth with my own, I can't control the movement of my hips. I roll against her and I can feel her smile into our kiss.

Her hands trail slowly up and down my thighs and slow. She is teasing me. I can feel the upward curl of her lips each time they move against mine. She revels in this game. And when she tongue enters my mouth, her hand shifts under me and makes us whole. She silences the sound that falls from me behind her lips. And I don't mind the pain biting at my knees from the mahogany bench as I move to keep pace with her ministrations. I can only focus; pinpoint the feeling of Jane around me, against me, inside of me. She beckons me and I wrap my arms tightly around her neck. A strong arm moves around me and she settles her palm against my lower back and applies a subtle pressure there.

She is telling me to slow.

And this is how I know we fit; silent understanding. In this instance and in others. A glance or a movement conveys all that we need. And when I do, she breaks our kiss and dips her head, moving her lips across my chest. She nips and takes me in, and when she does she pushes further into me. My head falls back and I am swimming, and when I feel her roll her wrist, my body responds like she knew it would and I quicken my pace against her.

I press my forehead against hers. She is beautiful from here; this vantage point I have above her. I can feel heat begin to gather it my body. It moves from every point in me; a kaleidoscope finding symmetry until it is centralized in me. Her eyes stay with mine, and she watches me.

She watches me and I love it.

And there is a precipice with Jane that I have never met before. And as I approach it I know that no matter how far I fall she will always find me. It is something visceral we share, something cataclysmic she brings me to. And when it happens static fills the air. She keeps watching me. Even when I push against her; collapse against her, causing her to fall back and to land on the keys behind her. And I reach out to grasp for something to keep me grounded and disjointed sounds fill the room; she watches me and I watch her.

My body is slick against hers, and as we slow, she brings us forward. Her hand finding purchase at my neck as her others strokes and quells at heat. It's then three words fall past her lips and grace mine. She is quiet with them, but fervent. And before I can reciprocate with my own she silences me with a kiss.

"Not now." she says; her breath hot against me.

"But I do." I say quietly, and she is no longer watching me. Her eyes are tightly closed and I kiss her brow; a request to open them.

"I do." I say again.

And when she looks at me it is with sincerity and fear; but also a plea, as though the words being returned back to her could break her apart and she wishes for nothing more than to hear them.

"I love you." I say standing, and she watches silently as I kneel in front of her. I pause for a moment as she traces her finger down my cheek. I unbutton and unzip her jeans and tug at the waist band, and she raises her hips obediently. Her eyes are impossibly dark.

"I love you." I say again and place a small kiss against her inner thigh. And my lips trail higher. I slowly bring her leg so that it is hooked over my shoulder, and I look at her for permission to cross this line; one I had been wanting since I had moved inside her for the first time; the want to taste her. My fingertips run the length from her thigh to hip, and when her hand rest gently on my head and loses itself in my hair I know she is granting me this.

And when I move my mouth to her, she arches against me. She is exquisite. I want to savour her for all that she is.

And I do. I can feel her grip tighten and the pull of my hair sends a shock of pleasure through me because I know she is close. Her head is lulled back. Her eyes are closed and lip is caught between her teeth, suppressing a primal, vocal want. She is just as I imagined she would be, and she is beautiful.

Her back arches and the only sound that fills the room is her breathing; wonderfully broken and ragged, and the single note that plays when her head falls completely back.

She had played in G minor.

* * *

Geometrics.

And it is simple; a 'Y'.

The lines I use come in diagonally, from the shoulders and meet at the sternum then continue downward, straight. My hands are steady. Lines coming together and separating, revealing all that we are.

What keeps us; what propels us.

What we become a husk for once we are gone.

The human kidneys weigh between 120-140 grams and each lung weighs approximately 1.1 kilograms. The liver weighs between 1200-1500 grams.

I finish the final stitch in his chest.

An ice pick had been protruding from his skull. The image was far too familiar. And while no one around me would have noticed in the evidence garage, inwardly unsettlement had taken hold and not left until I had entered the morgue.

I find comfort here.

_Barold was shifting awkwardly next to me, trying to look at the body, but finding his shoes to be far more interesting._

_"I read a study that said people can conquer this kind of thing with repeated exposure, like when you're afraid of dogs, or flying."_

_"Oh, immersion therapy! Very effective. It worked for me."_

_He gives me a curious look; "What were you afraid of?"_

_"People." I said matter of factly; "Live ones."_

_I remember the young girl on my table and felt a sense of contentment when I looked at her lungs and they did not expand; "She'll never judge me, tease me, and I can help her. I can speak for the dead."_

Though in this moment I find myself wishing the dead man on my table to rise up and tell me his story so that I could understand; to piece together his last moments and my own past.

A patrol officer is standing in the double doors before the lab with a burly man. As I make my way towards them his face is unreadable but there is a familiarity about him.

Something dark, and I've seen him before in my dreams. My blood freezes in my veins.

"This man is here to identify his son." the offers states and then takes his leave.

He introduces himself as Mr. Selsi, and his anagrams are showing, but it is of no matter. I am mounted in the spot that I stand. He takes place beside me and looks through the windows at the man on the table.

And I am lost. Shock and sadness well inside of me. He is close enough to touch.

_To kill._

"I- I'm sorry for your loss." I remain as clinical as I can, trying to keep my voice level.

He doesn't look at me and I do my best not to do the same. I feel as though I am going to be sick.

"How was he killed?"

"He died from a cerebral hemorrhage."

He looks at me then, and though I fight the urge to meet his eyes, I do.

"I want to know how."

"An ice pick, he was stabbed with an ice pick."

_My mother is screaming and I can do nothing._

A flash of understanding crosses his face as he looks back into the morgue.

"I am terribly sorry, we are looking for his killer."

I remember Jane and the drawings she had brought me.

"What was he like?" I'm surprised by the softness of my tone.

"He was too much like his old man."

"I've seen his drawings, he was brilliant. I have them if you would like one to take with you to remember him."

"No. I won't forget my son."

I absently twirl the ring on my finger.

"But you have something I do want."

He turns fully towards me and takes my elbow into a firm grip and pushing through the doors that leads us to his son. I am unable to fight. I am paralyzed.

"I want those." he points to the stitches.

"You want sutures?" I mutter, confused.

He lets go of my arm with a push and I stumble towards cabinets. I watch him, but I seem to be all but forgotten; he is focused on his son. I retrieve the sutures and come back; and he only acknowledges me enough so that I can hand them to him. He slips them into his pocket and turns.

"Goodbye Maura." and he disappears through the doors.

My body is hot and I can feel bile rise in the back of my throat. I run towards the sink and promptly throw up.

I lean against the sinks edge, trying to compose myself. I had been in the same room as my parents murderer. I wonder if he remembers me; the little girls whose life he stole.

I push the dead man's body to cold storage, but I pause. I look at him, and time slips away. I want so desperately to understand, and while I may speak for the dead, they can never truly speak to me.

And while loneliness has been a companion for sometime, I feel myself craving warmth. Comfort.

I place the man into cold storage and head home to Jane.

* * *

When I walk in Jane is sitting at the island in my kitchen with stacks of folders in front of her. Crime scenes photos take up ever space.

I come behind her and rest my hands on her shoulders. She reaches across and covers my hand with her own.

"Paddy Doyle." she says quietly.

I round the chair and stand beside her. Many of the pictures are from murder scenes. Shootings and stabbings. More than one picture has an ice pick lodge in the victim's chest. I shut my eyes and inhale deeply. I feel Jane press a kiss into my shoulder.

"Colin Doyle is-.. was his son. That's who's on your table."

I run my fingers over the pictures until I notice a cross on the wall in one. I pick it up and my hand clutches at my chest, in some desperate attempt to shield my heart.

It is my mother. Her head is back and her eyes stare blankly at the ceiling. There is so much blood around her.

"What do you know about your biological parents?"

I look at Jane and open my mouth but no words come out. I put the photo face down and see the name 'Hope Martin' written across the back.

"Hope." I say.

_Hope._ That had been her name.

Jane's eyes are downcast and she is shaking her head.

"Maura, I am so sorry."

"Did you read the case file?"

She only nods. She knows about the two old found, crying at her dead parents feet, blood pooled around her.

"My adoptive parents never told me about them." I say quietly; "I think they liked to believe that I was too young to remember what had happened."

Jane looks at me then, and concern and sympathy play in her eyes.

"He introduced himself as Mr. Selsi. It's Isles, my adoptive name spelled backward. He was there to identify Colin."

"He was with you?" she is angry. Protective.

Her anger doesn't begin to match my own. I walk around the island and begin to pace; "He was toying with me from the start while he was staring at his murdered son. He knew who I was, Jane."

"I think whoever killed Colin knew his murder would draw Patrick out, and used his M.O has a way to send a message." she leans back in the chair and rubs her eyes.

"The ice pick." I say absently.

"Yes."

I pick up the picture of my mother and stand beside Jane; "I saw him kill my parents. I watched him and there was nothing I could do."

"You were a child." she counters softly.

_I'm going to kill him._

She takes the picture from me and slips it back into the case file before she stands and envelopes me. Her arms are protection. Her embrace is home.

"Go upstairs, I'll clean this up." she places a light kiss against my temple. As I retreat upstairs I remember an earlier time when I had first started at the BPD. When I had spent hours in the basement combing boxes of files looking for my parents case. Looking for anything to understand. And I'm sure I had held those pictures in my hand, but kept them hidden; too afraid to open up the file and reveal them.

My shower doesn't relax me, and sleep doesn't come. Even when Jane gets into bed and slips her arms around me.

Paddy had said that Colin was too much like him. And while DNA may bind them. He also made me. I wasn't born this way, instead I was reprogrammed and hardwired. A predisposition that I can no longer change, but have learned to adapt to. Something dark and I had seen the beast of who I am reflected back at me when I had looked at Patrick Doyle. A dark familiarity. A suffering transposed into me from a monster, in turn making me a replica.

When I feel Jane's breathing even, I slip from her embrace and grabbing my robe, make my way downstairs to the parlor. The morning sky is grey and a light snowfall has started.

And for a moment it is quiet. I feel Jane's arms wrap around my waist and this is peace. Even as the tears begin to make their way down my cheeks, this is the stillest I have ever felt.

It is Jane and her murmured declarations of assurances and love against my ear.

And it is the pieces of my past falling into focus. An understanding of who I am; of what I am. I can feel Jane's strong heartbeat drum against my back. And I want nothing more than to hold Patrick Doyle's heart in my hands.

* * *

Darkness.

And the day had started off so promising.

My hands are bound and I am in back of the medical examiner's van. I can smell blood.

Iron.

And when it stops and the back doors open I am met with Paddy Doyle again.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't get back to see you again. There was no way but bringing you to me."

I writhe against the zip tie around my wrist and wonder if he has ever heard of phone.

"I can take that off." he leans in and I back away.

"No. Don't touch me. You've done enough." and he steps back.

"You should know you're not in danger."

"There's a lot I don't know." I shout. My anger is boiling over; "You don't get to terrorize me."

I slid myself forward and step out of the van; "You don't get to kidnap me and interrogate me. I want to know why you killed my parents."

He is silent as he walks towards me; "I don't expect forgiveness for what I've done, or for who I am. But I am sorry. I'm sorry that you were there."

"But why?"

"Business. Your father was a low level thug in the Donegal family. He was a hit."

"And my mother?"

"She was their money handler."

He leans against the van and shoves his hands in his pockets. His matter of factness only pushes my anger further. He doesn't flinch when I run towards him and my hands close around his neck, tightening.

He grabs my hands and pulls them away from him. He flicks open a knife and cuts the ties binding me. I keep my eyes fixed on him and step back. His stone expression doesn't change.

"I know what you've heard about me, most of it's true." he puts the knife back in pocket and removes an envelope from the other.

"I can't change what I've done. I don't let regret follow me, but you are the exception. You should know I've always kept an eye on you."

He hands me the envelope. The paper is worn. He has kept it with him for sometime, and when I open it there are pictures of me.

My grad school and medical school graduations.

The next picture is a grainy and in black and white. I can make out it is me on Adam Fairfield's boat. I am leaning over him. The one that follows shows me standing in front of a suspended Darren Crowe.

I swallow hard; "Why do you have these?"

"As a reminder of what I did to you. Who I turned you into."

He takes back the photos tucks them into the envelope and back into his pocket; "I need a favor from you."

I scoff at the notion.

"I need to know who killed my son, and you are going to tell me."

I square my shoulders; "And if I don't?"

"I wouldn't want to use those photos as leverage." his tone is dark; "You don't deserve what you are. I'm not seeking forgiveness, but rather restitution for what I've done. You still have a chance for a life; something I gave up a long time ago."

"You know nothing about my life." I counter bitterly.

He nods; "Maybe. But maybe in a way I did you a favor. I took you away from a world where you could have been hurt. You are accomplished, beauti-.."

"Is that your justification? That perhaps I am better because of what you did? You saved me from some questionable life? You burnt down my world." I say vehemently; "The anger I feel is measurable to someone standing on my chest. You put that there. You are responsible for that. And in the brief moments where raises and I have enough relief to breath, I don't even have the time to exhale the pain I feel before its weight settles back on top of me. You killed my hope."

And a sharp pain closes around my heart. It is no longer a word or a belief.

_Hope._

And a look that I can only gather to be sympathy flashes across his face, but he doesn't respond, but rather walks towards me, producing a phone and the vans keys from his pocket.

"It's programmed with a number. I'll always answer it. When you know, as soon as you know, call me."

I take the items and look at him.

"I want to protect you. These are the only pictures that exist" He taps his finger against his pocket; "When you call me they will disappear. That is a promise."

He holds my stare, before glancing at the ground; "I'm sorry if you ever felt abandoned, Maura."

"Abandonment requires expectation. Something I no longer have."

He turns and begins walking up the parking garages ramp towards the street.

And know my expectations have shifted. I no longer keep my time with the dead. The protection of being surrounded by death is that they cannot leave you. They cannot be taken from you.

Stability. That is what death provides. It is an inevitability, but one that can be controlled. One I can control.

And I will control Patrick Doyle's.

"I'll be expecting your call." echos off the concrete walls of the garage and he is gone.

I flip open the phone and call Jane as I get in and start the van.

"Whatever you want I can get it."

I let out a shaky breath.

_Expectations can change._

"Jane, it's me."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes." I pull out on the street and I'm not far from the station; "Meet me in the morgue's delivery bay in ten minutes."

* * *

Our ride is silent back to my house, and when we arrive and make our way inside she walks straight to the kitchen; pouring me a glass of wine and getting a beer for herself.

I sit at the island and she stands beside me. I tell her about how I had been taken to the parking garage. About Paddy and his twisted presentation of forgiveness. She listens intently and I negate other details.

"Seeing him made me so angry. It also made me feel so alone. What if my parents had lived? Who would I be now? I feel like I don't know who I am."

"Hey, come on. You are still the same ridiculously smart, amazing, goofy person that you are. You can't focus on the 'what if's'."

I can't help but to smile; "Thank you."

She cups my face in her hands and gives me a gentle kiss; "I like being able to do that for you."

"Do what?"

"Make you smile."

I kiss her again, and my rage dissipates. She is set apart; her words, her touch are perfection.

"Bed?" I ask in a breath against her and she nods into our kiss.

* * *

She is slow.

The way her lips move across me. As though she is mending every broken piece and scar for any pain that has ever cut through me. An affirmation of her love and the knowledge that I am not alone.

It is warmth.

Her lips press against mine and my hands tangle in her hair. She moves against me and I arch my hips to meet her. Her tongue runs across my lips and I bring my fingers there. She takes two into her mouth and feel her play against them; sucking gently and tracing them. It almost becomes too much. I am becoming desperate to feel her mouth against me and she knows; the look I give her conveys it.

She gently pulls at my hand, and kisses me; lacing her fingers with my own she begins a slow path down my body; her hand never leaving mine.

And when she finds where I need her most and I gasp at the contact. I can feel the low rumble as she hums happily against me for the first time. Her ministrations are calculated. Methodical. My grip tightens around her hand. I can feel every fiber in my body tense until warm waves crash through me. And as they subside, she moves up me, until her head finds a home against my chest. Her fingers stay loosely tangled with mine, and my thumb traces the infliction in her palm.

We stay like this; in a comfortable silence until the sound of Jane's phone rouse us.

"That was Frost. They found Colin's killer. It was O'Rouke." she runs her fingers through her hair and leans over giving me a small kiss against my shoulder.

"Do you need to go in?" I ask.

"No. Him and Korsak are working on getting warrant. Judges aren't easy to wake up at two in the morning." she says as she lays back down beside me; "We'll get him."

I suddenly remember the phone Paddy had given me in my jacket pocket. Jane shifts beside me and lays against my shoulder, conforming her body against mine. I place a light kiss against her forehead and then rest my cheek there.

"I love you."

I feel her release a content sigh; "I love you, too."

I stay with her until her breathing evens. I wrap my robe around me and leaning down, kiss her temple gently; "I'll be right back." I murmur. I want nothing more than to stay in her arms.

I retrieve the phone from my pocket and close the bedroom door behind me as I make my way downstairs.

I set the phone in front of me and brace myself against the counter. I open the it and select the saved number.

It rings two times; "Tell me."

"O'Rouke."

"Oka-"

"Wait." I cut him off.

"What?"

"Your promise."

"It still stands." he says with a husk.

"Don't expect thanks from me."

"I don't."

"I will kill you." I make my resolve clear.

He is silent for a moment; "I'd expect nothing less." and the line dies.

I take the two halves of the phone and bending it back at the joint, break it in half. I wrap it in a paper towel and throw it away before making my way back upstairs.

* * *

The parking garage is the same. It is a message made clear only to me; a standing of terms.

O'Rouke is tied to a chair; an ice pick sticks out from his chest.

"Looks like Paddy got O'Rouke first." Frost says from behind me.

I pull the pick from his chest and notice blood on his shirt, near his abdomen. I unbutton it. He has been cut open and stitched back together.

"Maura, could that be the same as Crowe?" Jane asks. Her flashlight moving over the incision.

_A chance for a life_. Patricks words echo in my head.

I only nod; "It very well could be."

I feel a cold draft behind me and notice a small pile of soot on the ground beside O'Rouke. The charred, white corner of a photo the only thing visible. One that picks up as my ashes spread. Hiding and exposing who I am in an embers light.


	9. Project and Personify: The Killing Field

**A/N:** Again, thank you all so much for the reviews and feedback. To everyone that follows this story, thank you. I can't thank you enough for all the things you say and for joining me on this crazy AU. And I hope the **Hannibal** fans out there enjoy all the little easter eggs that pop up. Some references to the book here (namely the _elements_ portion. Written by Hannibal to Clarice in a letter). Recommended listening to for this chapter: _Copper Wimmin - Bleeding Rivers, From Autumn to Ashes - Autumn's Monologue, Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michealson - Winter Song._ Also, one word, a range of emotions: **Casey**. Many asked for it, and here it is. Though, it may not happen quite like you think. **DUN DUN DUN. **A little mention to last weeks '**Dexter',** and because I never mention it, Jane is staying at Beth Israel Deaconess in Boston, and that is because there is a T stop a few block away that goes right up to the Veteran's Hospital. Google maps whatwhat.

* * *

_Gunshots._

I hardly remember the ambulance ride.

But I can remember Jane's face as she collapsed to the ground. The image is seared in my memory.

I remember the sound of my heart beat drumming in my ears as I ran towards her; the feeling of adrenaline rushing through me and applying so much pressure to the wound that I feared my hands would push through her; trying to keep every fiber in her from pouring out.

And I remember Jane's blood on my hands.

Now I am standing in the E.R and she has disappeared behind doors with EMT's and doctors swarming around her. My hands are cold; caked and cracked with red. And the reality sets in that Jane may very well die.

A nurse is beside me. My ears are ringing and her words bunch together. She is asking me if I want to clean up, I think.

_What is the first thing a person is shock says? I'm not in shock_.

I look down at my hands. They are stained. So stained that I'm sure my bones now carry the color. I bring my hands to my chest and clench them into fists. I can only nod. I don't trust my voice not to betray me.

The nurse leads me through the ER doors where Jane had gone. I can hear the rushed calls being made and my attention is pulled to it, but the nurse stays firmly beside me, gripping my elbow and obstructing my view and leading me away to a private bathroom.

She opens the door and points assertively at me; "Stay here."

I want to run to Jane. I want to save her. It is the least I can do. She saved me; helpless in my dreams, she reached down and pulled me out of an abyss I thought had engulfed me long ago. She awakened me and I love her. And while that may not be enough, I know that I can put her back together so that she can continue to love me.

Because without her I am lost. Drifting aimlessly and overwhelmed by a darkness that has up until recently consumed me.

Something she chased away.

Jane cant die. She can't leave me. She is a pure and perfect love that has embedded itself in me; pushing a darkness that has welled deep in my chest to the peripherals of my heart and kept it at bay. I would drown into myself without her.

_'Code blue'_ rings out over the hospitals speakers and I am sure my heart seizes in my chest. I brace myself against the sink and look at my reflection in the mirror. Shock has bled the red from my face. I feel like a ghost; inhabiting a shell of who I am.

I set and tighten my jaw, I try to remember the muscles there.

_Masseter. Depressor anguli oris. Buccinator._

Anything to stop the feeling of my heart tearing in two. Jane's blood is pronounced. It streaks my face from where I attempted to brush my hair away.

My features are traced with red. The clarity of who I am; of who I will always be reflected back.

I turn on the water until steam fogs the mirror and bring my hands under it. The sink is crimson and blood streaks down my arms when I bring my fingers close enough to brush them across my lips.

And there is Jane; close to me. Close enough to touch.

To smell and taste.

_Metallic and brazen. Like gunpowder and hammered brass._

I pull my hand away and wipe the steam from the mirror before gripping the sides of the sink that has started to overflow. I feel outside of myself.

When the door opens, the nurse drops the towels in her hand. She is beside me quickly, shutting off the water and I find myself wrapped in an unfamiliar embrace that I find comfort in. I pull and grip the larger woman's shoulders and tighten the fabric of her scrub top in my hands for something tangible.

"Your friend is heading up to surgery." Her voice is reassuring.

"But the code." I choke out.

The woman pulls back and gives me a sympathetic look; "They resuscitated her."

She smiles at me; "Clean yourself up." she runs her hands up and down my arms before taking her leave. It is a small comfort.

I turn and lean against the sink and avert my eyes to the ground. Crimson water moves around me. It stains the sterile white of the floor before disappearing down a drain in the center of the room.

Warmth trails down my cheeks. It wanders away and mix at my feet with Jane's absence beating inside my chest.

I'm lost in a small sea; adrift.

My hands fall to my sides. Drops form at my fingertips and deepen the color of the water around me as they fall.

_There was so much blood._

And her heart bleeds rivers deep enough to drown.

* * *

Jane has yet to wake.

The nights have been cold, and the days have turned to weeks. Snow blankets the city. Angela and I rotate our times at Jane's bedside. I have taken a substantial amount of accrued time off and while Dr. Pike may be incompetent, he hasn't driven the lab into the ground. The senior intern has kept me up to date. Though work has been pushed to the far reaches of my mind at the moment, the job she has done is impressive. I have every intention of hiring her once she graduates in the spring.

The ICU staff has come to know me. I look over Jane's charts each day. An air of protection surrounds me and in turn surrounds Jane. I have come particularly fond of the nurse who helped me when I first arrived. Her name is Barbra. She reminds me of an older version of Jane's mother. She wears bright scrubs. They are almost overly cheerful. Often she will sit with me in silence while I stay vigilantly at Jane's bedside.

When I arrive today, she tells me that Jane had a visitor; a gentleman wearing military fatigues. He had came by yesterday morning, and again today. Only for a few minutes after Angela left and before I arrived.

"He brought flowers today."

I narrow my eyes and look towards Jane's room from the nurse's station. There is an arrangement on her bedside table.

Aside from myself and Angela, the only other visitors have been family along with Korsak and Frost.

"He was quite handsome." Barbra adds with a small raise of her eyebrow.

I thank her quietly and make my way to Jane's room. I check over her chart. She remains baseline like the previous two weeks. I sit in the chair beside her bed and look at the flowers left behind. I pick up the card and read it.

_With all my love - Casey._

And I fight the urge to tear the card in two. Instead I replace it and calm the jealousy inching its way up my spine.

I spend the day beside Jane. I shop absently on my IPad. I almost believe that UPS knows me on a first name basis now, but really I observe Jane. They had removed a quarter of her liver. The trauma inflicted on her body had sent it into a state of shock, leaving her unconscious. Her features are pale. Her lips are chapped and her skin is dry. I remove a small tube of lavender lotion from my bag and apply a generous amount to my hands before massaging it in. I trail and trace her fingers, lacing them with my own before placing a light kiss on the back of her hand. I retrieve chapstick from my bag and apply it to her lips. It is a simple regimen I repeat each day. A habit I find comfort in.

I have spent the days holding one sided conversations with Jane. I miss her sarcasm; her touch. I picture her rolling her eyes as I read her poetry, or her brow knitting together as she tried to decipher a particular stanza.

Instead, I'm sure she would make a quip about Doctor Suess and poke me in the shoulder to keep tempo with_ "I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them Sam I am."_

Today I read her part of John Donne's _A Valediction Forbidding Mourning_.

_Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;_

_Men reckon what it did, and meant ; _

_But trepidation of the spheres, _

_Though greater far, is innocent_

_Dull sublunary lovers' love _

_Whose soul is sense cannot admit_

_Of absence, 'cause it doth remove_

_The thing which elemented it."_

_Our two souls therefore, which are one,_

_Though I must go, endure not yet_

_A breach, but an expansion,_

_Like gold to aery thinness beat._

I lean over and place a light kiss on Jane's temple. I turn off the lamp on the side table and bring my chair closer to the bed. I lace her fingers with mine and lay my head on her shoulder. I listen to even, shallow breaths beside me. I remember the most stable elements.

Somewhere between iron and silver.

And in there seems about right for Jane.

Somewhere between iron and silver seems about perfect.

* * *

I make a point to come in early the next morning in hopes of running into Casey. Angela is curled up on the chair beside Jane's bed. I check over her charts before gently tapping Angela on the shoulder. She opens her eyes and I give her a warm smile.

"No change." she mumbles, leaning over and kissing Jane on the cheek.

"Things will turn around soon enough, Angela." I reassure her.

She returns a warm smile.

"You." she points at me and settles back into the chair; "You are a good friend. You are good for my Janie. She is loyal and protective sometimes to a fault." She motions around her with her hands; "Clearly. Am I right?"

A small, sad smile tugs at me.

"She needs someone like you. Someone to help her fight off everything she keeps in here." Angela taps her temple; "You do that for her."

_And she does the same for me._

She stands and closes the distance between us; wrapping me up in a tight hug.

"Just promise to love her like you have been." she says quietly as she steps back.

I nod and we share a knowing look. She smiles as she begins to gather her things.

As she makes her way towards the door, she gives me a light kiss on the cheek; "Call me if anything changes."

"Of course." I say as I take the seat next to Jane's bed and look at her; taking her hand in mine.

I watch Angela leave and I can almost hear Jane asking me if I think she has picked out a wedding theme yet. I laugh to myself at the idea. But then it turns into a sobering thought.

The idea of a life with Jane. It doesn't seem so unattainable. I actually find myself happy at the thought. Excited.

_And do what? Galavant around the city at night with a knife in your hand?_

I wonder if I will ever be able to paint a picture of us that works. One in which I no longer straddle the line between the worlds of who I am and who I yearn to be.

A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.

_Casey_.

He is dressed in military fatigues and carrying a fresh bouquet of flowers.

"I'm sorry. May I?" he asks politely, concern almost creeping into his voice. I try to pinpoint his dialect.

"Yes. Please." I stand from the chair and walk towards him; extending my hand.

"I am Maura Isles."

"Casey Jones."

He shakes my hand and bemused looks comes across his face; "So you are Maura." he says, almost impressed.

"I am." I narrow my eyes slightly at him.

"She's told me about you." he says, reading the confusion on my face as he lets go of my hand and places the flowers on the side table.

"Has she now?" I ask.

"Mmhmm." he walks across the room and slides up another chair beside Jane on the opposite side of the bed and sits.

"All good things, I assure you."

I sit back down and observe him for a moment; "So you are friends?"

"For going on 20 years now, yes."

I suddenly feel like a fool for reading the way I did into the card he had left.

"From high school." he continues, "After she joined the police academy, I enlisted. We fell out of each other's lives for some time. I recently came back into Boston about eight months ago."

"Were you overseas?"

He nods. He explains to me how shrapnel from an IED had embedded itself in his spine, leaving him partially paralyzed. He had came back to the states to seek out a neurosurgeon who would perform a surgery that would remove the shrapnel in hopes of allowing him walk again.

He gives me a strong smile and taps on his shin; "I have braces now for support. But other than that I am able bodied."

I smile. He seems like a decent man.

"Jane and I had been going back and forth through email for a few months. I didn't tell her I was back. I didn't want to worry her. But she was very fond on the subject of you."

It feels strange to have this conversation over her. I look down at Jane and brush a strand of hair and tuck it behind her ear. How she is here, but not.

"Finally meeting you know makes me see why. It is clear you care about her."

"Very much." I say.

He smiles and pats Jane's hand before sitting back in his chair; "I'm happy to know she has found someone like you. Someone, if I remember correctly she said "completes me." " He air quotes the last statement; "Her words, not mine."

I let out a small laugh and my heart feels as though it may float away; "She can be surprisingly sweet." I say.

Casey nods; "There is a tenderness about her that not a lot of people get to see. But once she lets you in, you're there for good."

He pauses for a beat before continuing; "Jane and I were close in high school. I was, uh-.." he laughs; "I guess I was an insurance policy in some way. An idea of normality. High school kids can be relentless." His look becomes wistful. He had loved her and it had been unrequited.

He checks his watch and raises from his seat; "I have to be going. I work over in Jamaica Plain at the Veteran's Hospital. I've been over here lately though because they are building a new wing specifically for Veteran's. I'm overseeing the PTSD division."

I quickly stand up; "Do you need a ride?"

He waves his hand; "No. No, but thank you. There is a T stop a few blocks down. Besides, I like being able to break these in." he taps his foot and smiles; "I will be back over later. Probably early in the evening. Maybe I will see you again."

"Maybe." I offer, but I know that he will.

He extends his hand and I take it. He places a light kiss on the back of my hand; "It was a pleasure meeting you Maura."

"Likewise." I say.

I watch Casey leave and a sudden shift moves over me.

And I give serious thought where to place my knife. Somewhere between the 11th and 12th discs of the Thoracic I estimate.

* * *

Angela arrives a little after 6pm and I take my leave. Outside it has begun to snow, adding another layer to the many that have accumulated over the days. As I make my way to my car I hear my name being called.

It is distinctly London, though it has worn off in the years since he has been in the states.

"Maura!" I can hear his footsteps crunch into the snow behind me.

I turn and face Casey and give him a polite smile; "Hello Casey."

"Any changes with Jane?"

I shake my head; "No. She remains baseline." His face falls and I can tell his is disappointed in the news. And in the moment, I believe this is for the best.

Best that she sleeps through the nightmares of this world that I have stepped fully into.

"How is construction going?" I ask.

He shrugs; "Stalled at the moment because of the weather."

"Would you like to see it?" he asks.

I nod and he smiles; "This way."

We walk around the side of the hospital and up a side alley to where the construction site is. Bare light bulbs hang from the skeletal structure. Walls and floors are halfway constructed. Sheets of plastic cover the open areas where windows will go in some half attempt at weatherproofing from the wind and snow.

"I'm on the third floor." Casey says, looking up; "Want to take a ride?" he motions towards the scaffolding lift. A breeze picks up from behind us. The cold bites at my face and there is a window of clarity in which I know I should walk away. That this good and honest man shouldn't be a part of who I am, and yet, I can't leave. Instead I smile happily as he takes my hand and helps me into the lift

When we reach the third floor, Casey pushes the plastic aside and allows me in. It is all but bare, aside from the lightbulbs swaying above us and myriad of construction tools.

"This entire area is going to be a rehabilitation area. Physical therapy with brand new equipment and even a hydrotherapy pool."

He is proud and I am eyeing the masonry hammer on a nearby table.

He leads and I follow. I wander from him and stop in front of the table and turn back to face him. I keep my hands clasped behind my back.

"This is awe inspiring, Casey." I lean back slightly and pick up the hammer, keeping it loose in my grip.

I know he is smiling as he speaks; "We will do amazing work here." he looks around the open area.

"May I ask you a question?"

"Of course." he turns and faces me before waving me to come over; "My office will be back here."

"When you were injured, was your convoy attacked?"

He stops a moment before continuing forward; "Yes. We were ambushed. We took cover behind our rig and returned fire. We didn't know there was a roadside IED. It was detonated about five meters away from us. I fell on top of my staff sergeant and took the brunt of the explosion."

His voice is distant. Makeshift floors shift and groan under us as we walk across the boarding

I feel constricted. Wound suddenly to a point that I feel as though I may fracture.

He wrings his hands together and it reminds me of Jane; "This will be my office. Clients can meet with me here. I'm kind of a PTSD mentor. Therapy will happen on the second floor. I'm support here while they go through their rehabilitation."

Irrational anger surges up inside of me. It tears through me. I can feel my muscles tense.

This man is decent and pure. He is selfless and brave. He reminds me of Jane. I can see her laying broken and bleeding on the ground.

_There_ is the shift. It consumes me. This isn't about control. It is about want. I simply want to kill him.

_I am behind him before he knows I am there. I bring the hammer to the side of head in a swift movement and he collapses. A gurgle of incomprehension falls out of his mouth._

_He tries to stand but only falls over and through the drywall of his office. I am over him and bring the hammer down in the base of his skull. He stops moving._

_I take his hands in mine and drag him back towards the scaffolding lift. I push the plastic aside. It is dark out. With only blankets of snow falling. I am careful as I pull Casey onto the lift as to not lose my footing. I set him up so that he is sitting; propped against the railings of the lift. I step back inside and after a few moments am able to find materials that meet my needs. Turpentine, a solders torch and duct tape._

_I bind his hands and ankles and kneel in front of him. And I can focus. Casey has done nothing to me. If anything he has been kind and receptive to courtesy. He has been a friend and confidant to Jane. He has been a hero in his own right, just like Jane in hers._

_This isn't right._

I stand suddenly and step back through the plastic and shield myself from what I have done.

This is panic.  
This is uncertainty and impulsiveness for a fix to a need that I had been able to control.

And it is fear for what I know is just out of sight; projection and unrequited anger. A promise from Jane all those weeks ago, after Emily Stern.

_"I can't lose you." I said._

_"You didn't, and you won't."_

And yet here we are.

I step back out onto the lift and tear off two small pieces of tape. I cover his eyes as well as his mouth. I pick up the masonry hammer and turn it in my hand. I swing and bring the point firmly in the top of Casey's skull. I am thankful he had been unconscious. I drop the hammer into his lap.

I take off his dog tags from around his neck and slip them into my jacket pocket. I pour the can of turpentine over his body and then lower the lift. When I reach the ground I click on the solder torch and bring it to his boot. The flame moves up his body until he is engulfed.

I start the lift and step off. A funeral pyre elevating above me, I remember the poem I had read to Jane as I walk away.

_As virtuous men pass mildly away,_

_And whisper to their souls to go,_

_Whilst some of their sad friends do say,_

_"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."_

_So let us melt, and make no noise,_

_No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;_

_'Twere profanation of our joys_

_That ourselves know not what it is,_

_Inter-assurèd of the mind,_

_Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss._

I make my way around the hospital and to my car, caring less if I were to be seen. Part of me wishing that I was.

Instead I silently drive home, Casey's burning body lighting my way. A beacon in the night that brings no warmth or solace.

* * *

I don't sleep. I am marred with guilt for what I've done. I try to justify it to myself throughout the night.

Mercy is a poor description for it, but it is the only one I can settle on.

I watch morning come with gray clouds as it continues to snow. I go through the motions of getting ready and leave.

I drive carefully back to the hospital. When I arrive Angela is watching tv. She tells me that she asked for a radio to be brought into Jane's room, hoping something more lively would do the trick in bringing Jane back. If she notices the dark circles under my eyes and robotic demeanor, she doesn't say anything. Instead she gives me a light kiss on the cheek and asks that I call if there is any change.

The radio Barbra brings only gets one station that goes somewhere between static with a music background and music with a static background. For the past few hours there has been nothing but a Johnny Cash marathon playing. It's tolerable. I vaguely wonder if Jane can hear it or would even be partial to it if she were awake.

I rest my arms on the bed and take Jane's hand into my own. Her skin is dry. I retrieve the lotion and chapstick from my purse and carry on our daily regimen.

I notice the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. She slowly licks her lips and turns her head towards me and I can't make out the words she is saying.

I lean down closely to her; my ear near her. Her voice is tired and rough; it cracks like the dying embers of a fire.

"Cherry."

I look at her and her eyes are open; half lidded, but open. They are beautiful. Even as she struggles to open them wider, I struggle between wanting them never to be hidden again and hiding away from them myself.

She brings her hand up slowly and takes the chapstick from my hand, which has been hovering above her lips, and drops it beside her.

"I like cherry."

And I can't help the laugh that escapes me and quickly transforms into a desperate sob that I try quickly to catch with my hand, because of course she would.

"Then I'll get cherry." I say through tears, kissing her cheek.

She hums her approval and rests her hand against my head.

I sit back and keep her hand in mine. A semblance of peace washes over me.

And somewhere over the radio and through the static, Jane sings along quietly. A dusty voice in a morphine state, '_I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die."_


	10. This Is How Sanity Slips (In High Heels)

**A/N:** Casey death outrage! I never thought I'd see the day... Sorry not sorry. Again, thank you guys for all your reviews (especially the '_American Psycho'_ mention). That was too good to pass up, so there is some elements popping up in here to that. Don't worry, Maura isn't jumping off the rails on the crazy train (har har). **LOTS** of elements to _Hannibal _(tv) showing up in here. And because I haven't said it, I do not own Jane, Maura, Hannibal, Patrick Bateman etc etc etc. All credit go to their creators, I am merely borrowing and molding the amazing things they have created. A little mention to something Maura said way back in chapter 6. And here we go!**  
**

* * *

It takes three days for Casey to be found; charred and frozen. I had considered going back to dispose of the body, but couldn't bring myself to wage the risk. So I left him to the elements and bided my time for the inevitable.

In the days that follow police swarm on the construction site. Frost and Korsak question nurses and doctors. I stay with Jane, who is roused from her drugged state and is suddenly very sober and aware of her surrounds. I can tell she is on edge and I know any attempt at distraction on my part would avail to nothing, so I don't try. I also can't keep hidden whose body was on that lift. Not after Frost and Korsak question if I had seen or talked to any military personnel. And I can't lie. Yes, I had seen and talked to Casey days before in Jane's room. The statements from the nurses confirm my story. Only I hold my tongue at mentioning our encounter in the parking lot. I know Jane has read the card attached to Casey's flowers. She is smart and she is capable. She knows whose body they found. Dental and tissue records would be used and easily accessible given Casey's military background. I know, because it will only be a matter of time before I will be pulled out of Jane's room and back to the morgue by a call from Cavanaugh. So I wait.

I dread how Jane will react when she finds out. Inwardly I seethe over my mistake.

My impulsiveness. My need for something. Anything to ground me after the shooting. Any attempts to bargain and reason with myself are useless. I murdered an innocent man and I must live with that and the repercussions it brings.

When the call finally does arrive, I find myself struggling to leave Jane's side. And I'm sure she views it as love and dedication. Which to a degree it is. And again, I bargain. It is one that I think can be understood and remedied only if I stay by her side. That if I love her enough and do all the right things that this mark will make itself disappear.

Only I know it is solemn remorse and regret for what awaits me. I do not want to come face to face with what I have done. There is no wave of relief that washes over me. It isn't the contentment I felt of killing Adam Fairfield or Darren Crowe. And I have no discernible explanation for what I feel. It has come to me in pieces over days as I have tried to understand my actions. And at first I thought it was true empathy for what I had done. I found solace in that. That maybe I wasn't inherently so disconnected.

That I wasn't a monster.

But overanalyzation in the days that followed the feeling had quickly dissipated, and I was left remembering the hammer in my hand and how, despite my scattered clarity, I know now that I looked only at Casey as an object; one that fulfilled a need.

And I can come to no other conclusion other than I simply wanted to kill him.

And the war waging in me; one that I have never felt before and makes me realize that I really don't feel so bad.

Because killing him felt so good.

And the regret that courses through me isn't correlated to his body, but rather the ramification it will have on Jane.

Heroic and perfect Jane who deserves none of what has happened to her. Who deserves no more burdens or crosses to bear or buried demons to fight. Jane who deserves happiness and dispassion.

As Frost and Korsak wait for me, Jane gives my hand a tight squeeze and a small smile.

"Go." she says.

I lean down and leave her with a kiss, one that I let linger on her cheek.

"I'm so sorry." I say, and it carries so much more than she can know.

_I'm sorry for what I've done. What this will do to you. For who I am. For who I will always be. And I'm so sorry that I fear that no amount of love that pours out of you can change that._

"Don't be. Don't ever be."

And I almost suffocate on my words coming back to me.

* * *

The precinct is all but new.

Bullet holes have been spackled and painted over. It's hard to not hear the shots ring off the walls or invision how they must have power washed Jane's blood off the sidewalk.

It is not new. It only masks what was.

What is.

Korsak and Frost brief me on the way to the morgue. They explain that Dr. Pike was out of his element, and that after all that had happened, a case like this was not something Cavanaugh wanted 'fucked up', as Korsak so endearingly and gently put it.

As we step off the elevator I can see Pike in my office. He is sitting in my chair and the look I give him as I open the door all but makes him jump up and out of it and scramble into the lab. I walk to bathroom and promptly change into my scrubs. I hate Pike. He is incompetent and rude. Egotistical and dense. Killing him would almost be a favor to everyone. My mind wanders back and I realize how much I am going to truly dread performing this autopsy.

Frost and Korsak wait for me outside my office and we make our way to the morgue. The smell of burning permeates the air. Frost immediately gags and runs for the sink, and it stops Korsak in his tracks.

Burnt flesh has an acrid smell; one that lingers and has no proper way to describe. Processed meat from animals isn't the same. It lacks the fluid and fat; but when present, these two elements add an unfavorable stench. In all my years it has yet to be something I have grown accustomed to.

Korsak clears his throat; "We believe he was military. His back wasn't all that burnt up compared to the rest of his body. He was wearing fatigues from what we can tell. No ID on him though. No dog tags and his wallet was destroyed."

I only nod as I make my way to the autopsy table and unzip the body bag. I can make out the distinct smell of the turpentine left over on his body. It doesn't make the smell in the room any more bearable.

I can hear Frost wretch and throw up. Korsak is beside me with a mask.

I carry through the motion of the autopsy. But I am not there. My mind has traveled elsewhere.

Nowhere.

"Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. He has a fracture at the base of his skull."

I hear myself say it and I see Korsak nod but this is all automatic to me. I peer into the wound on top of Casey's skull where I had sent the point of the hammer through.

Killing Casey is obscure to me and it makes me question everything that I am.

If I am who I ever thought I was. If I am who Frost and Korsak know me to be.

Who Jane knows of me to be.

And if all of this has just been a veil. Some kind of abstraction of myself; one in which I have adorned this very well tailored person suit; or what the idea of a person is. If this has all been an affectation and taking Casey's life has finally revealed me for who I am.

Something intrinsically evil.

It is the mathematics of human behavior and all the ugly variables that come with it and I simply have no answer to it.

"The wound at the top of the skull is two and a quarter inches deep. It appears that his eyes and mouth were taped shut." I remove small, blackened clumps from under his eye and the corner of his mouth; "A small amount of residue remains adhered to his face."

"Ritualistic?" Korsak asks as he leans over and exams the pieces between the tweezers in my hand.

I shrug at Korsak's assumption, but really I did not wish to see the fear in his eyes. I didn't want him to know his fate or the paralyzing fear that takes hold. He wasn't deserving of it in the way the others were.

So maybe I am not a monster. Perhaps there is shred of human somewhere inside of me. I had carried concern as I killed Casey. I did not want him to suffer.

But that does not take away from the fact that I wanted to kill him.

I can feel the edges of a headache begin to move in as I begin the 'Y' incision in Casey's chest.

Jane had once said that is must be very complicated to be me. And in this moment, it couldn't be more true.

"I will have the results ready and sent to you as soon as possible, Detective Korsak. But I am confident in saying that the wound at top of the skull is what killed him. Not the fire."

"Smart bastard covered up anything we could have gotten with the fire. Evidence be damned."

"We have nothing." Frost says with a cough as he leans against the sink; his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"I can at least give you a name. I will run his DNA against the military databases."

"Thanks, doc." Korsak says, a sad frustration inching in his voice.

I force a smile and nod as the two men leave and carry on with the autopsy. Three hours later I have closed Casey up, put him in the freezer and sent off the DNA for identification. It is dark when I receive the fax for Charles Jones, along with his list of service and credentials. I finish my report within the hour and send the intern, Susie Chang up to Frost and Korsak with the results.

Casey. Brave and courageous. I should have ate his heart.

And a cold grip takes hold inside of me as I turn off the lights and leave for the hospital.

* * *

When I arrive Jane is awake, but makes no attempt to move or acknowledge me when I sit down beside her. Her eyes stay fixed on the tv but I know she is not watching.

Frost or Korsak called. I knew that they would, but hope that they wouldn't. Part of me wanted to tell Jane; for some sort of catharsis. I wanted to be the one to fix what would make her fall apart.

Because I am the reason.

We stay quiet for sometime; our breaths the only sound in the room, and it is almost too much for me to bear.

And I have lost track of time when Jane reaches across the bed for my hand. I put my hand in hers; giving myself over.

She wipes her face and looks down; playing with the edge of the sheet covering her. Her hand tightens around mine.

She looks at me then with such a sadness that it breaks my heart. She is something so vital and pure to me. And even with the dark edges that surround me, she has always remained clear.

And it isn't something I understand; how she chases every dark piece of me away. Even now, with every confliction inside of me. Every worry that centers around finding myself again; or if there is anything of myself left over. She gives me hope to find the salvageable in the broken parts of me. Whatever that is. Whatever, whoever I am is all there when I'm with her. It fits and slots into place. There is a peace. She brings balance to an unbalanced mind.

Jane is the core of me. She makes me see that things can be made better. She does it in a look or a gesture; with her love. She saves me from myself.

And even with all of this, it has never occurred to me to run; to _save myself_. Every person has an intrinsic responsibility to their own life. Yet I do not. The reality that my actions and the consequences they carry to me are incidental. Perhaps it is because I know that whatever happens to me is deserved. I have no reason to fight or flee; instead only remain stationary as the world were to close in around me.

And it is strange sensation that I suddenly have. In the silence of Jane's hospital room with her thumb brushing over the back of my hand in a steady, soft tempo, her eyes find mine and I see there the reason why the grey outside grows ever so darker and why blue skies will burn a little less bright when the sun graces it. There is a new piece of darkness there. And I'm seeing her differently. Something with a reckless strength and something unfamiliar. There is a kind of truth in them that she knows she is missing part of herself; that small part of her has broken and fallen away.

And in the moment that I see her with this, it is gone. All but fleeting. She is back looking out the window and pressing buttons, lowering her bed and giving herself morphine to black out oblivion.

"Stay." Her eyes begin to flutter shut, and her hand becomes loose in mine.

"Of course." I say quietly, bringing her hand to my lips, and placing a light kiss on her knuckles.

And I do. I stay and hope that morning brings a new light. One in which darkness is laid dormant; not left to fall away from me and land in the open wounds of Jane's heart.


	11. December Never Felt So Wrong

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay getting this out there. I must had started, stopped, trashed, started again, threw my hands up in frustration, trashed and started again this chapter about 3962 times. It's been a messy ride for this thing over the past few weeks. I think I finally got it all worked out. Recommended listening for this chapter is "The Chain" by Ingrid Michaelson (because I listened to that about, oh, a million times.) This chapter skips around a bit as far as a timeline (hospital to home) but that prevents chapters of a emo sounding Maura methinks (and who wants that, right?) We will be getting back on the murder track soon enough, just gotta get these two through their emotional upheaval first.

* * *

Jane crosses her arms and begins drumming her fingers.

We have been sitting in my car for almost twenty minutes locked in a stalemate of where to go.

"Just take me home, Maura.

And I am hesitant. It will take at least three months for her to fully recover. I have every amenity she would need. Instead she is being petulant and defiant. She needs to be looked after, and it borders maddening that she is not letting me provide for her some sort of safety and assurance.

"Your apartment's energy is not conductive to a healing environment." I say, putting the car into reverse.

Jane closes her eyes and takes a deep breath; "My apartment is just fine."

Her drumming continues and my hands grip the steering wheel a bit tighter.

I begin my drive down the levels of the parking garage and we remain silent. As we approach the exit I can see Jane looking at me out of the corner of my eye.

"Don't turn towards Beacon."

"Jane, really if you just come home wit-"

"Jesus, can you just take me to my fucking apartment!" she erupts, and her hand comes down hard on the dash. She winces in pain, but when I begin to reach for her, she puts her hand up and I stop.

"I'm fine. Just go." She sounds defeated.

My tongue clicks against the roof of my mouth and settle back into my seat. I am intently studying the emblem in the center of my steering wheel.

"Very well."

I expect an apology for the outburst, only it is one that never comes. Instead Jane's eyes stay set forward, focused on the grey cold as I pull out of the garage.

* * *

Though the apartment has been cleaned, the kitchen re-floored and the walls painted, it still carries residual horrors. Ones that shiny, new things cannot cover.

And I can't comprehend why she would want to come back. After everything that had happened here; after it all, she chose to come back. And I don't know if it is because she wants to distance herself, or because she feels that the pain that her home carries is something she is deserving of.

Or if it is both.

During the renovations, Angela had been the one to go to the apartment and retrieve Jane's clothes and bring them to my house. She had even taken Jo. Parts of Jane were still left with me, even if they were just half filled drawers. And up until the shooting we had begun to interweave with each other; building upon a foundation that had already been laid; that had been there for sometime and took a nightmare to awaken us to.

A simple kiss had opened up distinct possibilities for us, but in turn left me in the limbo of two worlds. Worlds that I fear that I may not be able to separate from.

And I had the idea in my head of some sort of happy ending after Jane awoke. One in which we started a life; safe with each other. Casey's murder changed that and now I'm not sure if anything can be saved or if we'll ever find each other again.

I have watched her slip further and further away. She has built something impenetrable around her and I have no idea how to begin to approach her. She is almost unreadable, but I can see anger in her.

And pain. It burns all around her.

I follow Jane back towards the bedroom. She throws her bag into the general direction of her closet and closes the blinds before tossing back and disappearing under her covers.

I watch her from the doorway and absently twirl the ring on my finger. I don't know what to do.

"Can I get you anything?" It is an open ended and safe enough statement.

"No."

I take a hesitant step forward and the covers flip back, exposing the empty spot next to Jane. It is an invitation I take and though she makes no move as I slip into bed beside her, I find comfort in the small gesture.

She switches the light off and darkness closes in around us and an immense silence settles. One that doesn't break and I wonder if this is what we have been reduced to; watching each other drift away. The space between us may as well be an ocean.

I feel the bed shift and I know sleep will be elusive for us both.

Somewhere in the dark I can feel much darker eyes on me. She is giving me an opening for something.

_Anything._

In the back of my throat I feel confessions build; ones that I want to scream into an insipid sky until they opened and parted clouds; tearing away any foundation under us.

And they are ones I choke back down. I force myself to hold my tongue and feel my heart break when I hear a frustrated sigh fall passed Jane's lips and I know that the moment is gone.

I watch the city lights play on the ceiling and desperately hope for some broken fragment of a chance Jane can find her way and that I can do the same.

That what is left of her won't reduce itself to ash and that my name on her lips isn't something that will fade away and become a distant memory; forgotten.

* * *

It has been almost two months since Jane left the hospital and it has become a routine of mine to visit her during the week; sometimes during my break and other times after work.

The end result of every meeting is silence. It fills the air heavy with forevers we have never spoken; like a dying breath it lingers and moments to break it pass us by again and again. We can say so much without parting our lips. Dinner grows cold and Jane may as well be counting the tiles on the ceiling of her kitchen. We are each other's only company.

And I want to know if she has bled her nights dry with tears.

Or if she has shed any at all.

But I never ask. Instead I clean our untouched plates and Jane takes her place on the couch; the tv dulling in the background while she becomes a platinum plus member of the shopping network with her laptop propped in front of her.

And even though boxes have begun to line her walls; an opening remains where a coat hook had once been; the growing deliveries on either side of it close in the space around it like a coffin.

There are fleeting moments though when I catch her looking at me and the angry lines around her eyes soften and I feel like I am being found only to be lost again.

It is all so horribly unfair; to love someone to a point that it breaks you in two. And I wonder if she see's me in the way I see her; so inherently _a part_ and just as much at a loss to find herself. Blinded and tortured by sleepless nights and a wish for the past and all its misgivings to fade.

_No._

Jane is anything she is because of me, and I have no way to atone. My guilt leaves me for a wish to change the past, and the feeling that every ounce of love that once was held for me in her heart is now in my hands and any offering that I can give to rectify it or fit it back in place is a shortcoming; because I simply cannot.

I cannot change what I have done. I cannot give Casey back his life and I cannot give Jane the closure she so desperately wants that it tears her apart in ways that a bullet going through her never could.

And I can't say a word because it would mean losing the one thing that brings me hope and into a world I never thought I would experience.

I look out the kitchen window and at Christmas lights lining trees that shine through a flurry of snow. The days have grown shorter and colder and despite this, everything is supposed to be beautiful; only it is not.

"I don't want to go."

The break is silence pulls me from my thoughts and I look at Jane. Her eyes stay fixed on the screen in front of her.

"To what?"

"The thing. The gala, benefit whatever Boston Hero shoots herself and gets an award thingy. I don't want to go." she raises an eyebrow and waves her hand above her head.

I set down the plates in the sink and walk over to her. Her eyes raise and I feel as though she is studying me. She raises her legs and I take a seat on the couch. And when her legs come down and rest in my lap I realize that this is closest we have been in months.

"Why don't you want to go?" I ask, tentatively resting my hands on her knee.

"I'm not a hero, Maura. Shooting yourself is not heroic."

"The people of Boston think it is."

"Eight people died. I don't want a medal for that." Her eyes flicker up to mine for a brief moment and then look passed me.

"Five of them were bad guys, Jane."

"Like that makes it better?"

"This ceremony isn't for you." I pat her knee and her eyes travel back to mine.

"This is-.. this is for your parents and your community. You are a symbol. You are a heroic flesh and blood reminder of the thin blue line and of the officers that were lost."

She rolls her eyes and closes her laptop quickly.

"Yeah. Good guys were lost that day, and the city wants to wave around its hands and celebrate it." She tosses her laptop onto the coffee table and swings her legs off my lap. She sits up and tangles her hands through her hair.

"No. The city wants to thank you for what you did."

"For putting a gun in my gut?" she asks, incredulously.

"No, for willing to risk your life for a greater good so that no other lives were lost that day."

She stands quickly and retreats to the kitchen where she retrieves a beer from the fridge. I sink further into the couch and Jane watches me.

"What?"

I am quiet for a moment; "What you did saved your brother. You saved me. The departments loss could have been much grea-.."

"What could you even know about loss?"

The contempt in her voice is like nothing I have ever heard. It runs through me and breaks under my skin like glass. Suddenly everything around me seems wrong. Nothing aligns and my searching eyes are desperate to lock on to something and when I can't, I quickly grab my purse from the coffee table and head towards the door.

"Maura, that's not what I meant." her voice is quiet; retreating into itself.

I stop at the door, my hand trembling at the knob.

"Maur.."

But I am already gone; leaving only silence as the last words we spoke.

* * *

I drive until it is too hard to see. I pull off to a side street and allow myself cry. It is like a wave crashing through me and I'm not sure how long have I been sitting when I can summon the strength to wipe my face and no longer taste salt.

I step out of my car and the wind bites at me as I take in my surroundings. I am by the Charles River. The bridge nearby is lit up with lights and reflects off the waters frozen surface. It is the kind of picture you would want to save to memory with someone beside you.

And what Jane had said keeps echoing around me. I know it isn't about the shooting. It isn't about Frankie or I. She is hurting and wanted to hurt someone in return.

It is about Casey and because the ceremony being held isn't just for Jane and the fallen officers of the shooting, but also for him.

Because behind Jane lies another fallen soldier and I may as well pin the medal myself.

I wrap my arms around myself and walk the small pathway beside the river. I am alone and it is a familiar feeling; being your own single, solitary guide. It is how I have lived most of my life until recently, and now I'm not sure what to make of it all, because Jane completely dismantles me. She has taken the most lonely and desperate and turned them inside out. I have never felt love in the capacity that I have, or that I was even capable to.

And love edges an epiphany; it is something crucial and impending. It fills me with a fear I have never known; of being completely vulnerable. Jane rearranges me. She has taken me apart, broken me down, pieced me back together and taken me into some unfamiliar and extraordinary world that mirrors my own. One in which the pure white of winter isn't marred by blood red. Where nowhere has become somewhere and where she has constructed an idea of me; of who I am. It makes me dizzy and it constricts inside my chest. She has allowed me to love and be loved in return and it utterly weakens me. I don't know if I can tolerate the thought of it, and when I do the enormity of it collapse around me. I have been laid bare; stripped to my foundation, and by anyone lesser, they would have bled.

_But not Jane._

She has buried me in a love that I fear because it comes so close to _who I am_, and that if any hint my darkness were to be found it would still the air around me and light a fire in my chest that I would choke on the embers its blaze.

When I return to my car, I am exhausted. My phone blinks and I have missed calls and texts from Jane. Every message a repeat of the next.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

* * *

When I arrive home, I can see the lights inside are on and Jane's cruiser parked on the street. Before I can even retrieve my keys, Jane is opening the door; her face is crestfallen and desperate.

I study her and then walk passed; "You look terrible."

The door shuts behind me, and I can hear Jane let out a small, sad laugh; "Thank you."

I set my things on the island and remove my coat, and before she can speak I turn on my heels and am facing her.

"It's been almost three months, Jane. You could have read all of Shakespeare. Learned Finnish. Instead you lost yourself. I lost you. You became angry and withdrawn. And _I'm sorry_, Jane._ I'm sorry_ that I can't take back a single thing that happened. I wish that I could. I do more than anything. But you've been acting as though you are staying alive out of habit, not because people around you actually need you and love you, but because you don't know anything else."

She wrings her hands together and remains silent. I watch her process what I have said, and she seems taken aback by my outburst and I wait for something from her. Minutes that drag for an eternity pass between us.

"Do you have anything to say?" I finally ask.

She stops staring at the floor and straightens her back; "I love you."

I close my eyes as the words crash into me and I wonder if love is enough to fill the emptiness between us with a substance of virtue.

And before I can open my eyes I feel myself wrapped in her embrace and a sweet kiss graces my lips. One that turns more possessive and desperate as Jane takes my face firmly in her hands and steps towards me, pressing her body flush against mine and backing me into the islands counter.

I melt into her and I feel the broken parts of me being brought back to life. Her hands run down my arms and intertwine with my own and I know then that they are the last ones I want to hold.

I pull back and break our kiss. She looks at me as though she has done something wrong. I give her a small, reassuring smile and bring her hands up. I turn them over in my own and kiss each infliction inside of her palm. And as much I don't want to, I release them and bring my hands to her face; tucking a strands of hair behind each of her ears and she leans into my touch. I bring my lips back to hers as my hand ghost down her chest and pull at her shirt. I can feel her stiffen and wince as she lifts her arms. I gently pull at her shirt and bring it over her head and let it fall.

I kiss her again and turn us so that she against the counter. I am careful not to press fully into her, but Jane brings us together. I unclasp her bra as I begin to make my way down her neck; trailing my lips and sucking gently at her pulse point. She rolls her hips into me as my teeth graze her collarbone. My hands move from her hips and pause when I feel the raised skin of her scar across her stomach.

"Does it hurt?" I ask quietly.

"Yes."

"We don't have-.."

"No.. well, yes, but not with you. It doesn't hurt with you."

Her eyes find mine and I can see reflected back at me a quiet love and it urges me on. I kiss across her chest, down between her breasts and take a darkened bud into my mouth. Jane's head lolls back and her hand becomes tangled in my hair and pushes me into her before bring me up for a bruising kiss. She bites my bottom lip and I can taste the beginnings of blood. Her hands move between and she unbuttons her jeans and pulls at them, sliding them down and kicking them off to the side.

She takes my hand in hers and guides us lower; "Here."

I can feel the heat radiating off her and it is intoxicating. I've missed the way she feels.

I've missed her, and when I push inside of her, her leg moves up and wraps low around my waist, pulling me closer to her and her arms wrap around my neck. Her hips begin a rapid pace and her voice is low; primal.

"Harder."

I burn, but add another finger and push inside her deeply; my thumb brushing over her most sensitive area. Her fingers dig into my back and I can feel her begin to tighten around me. Her head falls to my shoulder and she stills for a moment until her voice cracks. She folds and wraps her arms around me tightly as her climax courses through her and as she begins to return to me I can feel her tears against my neck and muffled apologies.

"I'm so sorry."

I slowly remove myself from her and take Jane fully into my arms; her cries growing louder as a catharsis takes hold and moves through her. She collapses to the floor, I envelope and gather each part of her and we find our way back; rearranging and piecing her back together into a image that works.


End file.
